


The Gentle Fall

by FallacyFallacy



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet Collection, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-23 22:14:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 23,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8344771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallacyFallacy/pseuds/FallacyFallacy
Summary: Look, love
  
  They've given up believing
  
  They've turned aside our stories of the gentle fall

The stories, collected together. Posted first to tumblr.





	1. Lams - Privacy

A last resort, he opened the front door. Immediately the freezing air buffeted him, pushing him back, but he settled more firmly into his thick outerwear and pushed through to the outside.

It was deathly quiet – almost disturbingly so, after the endless noise that would seem to continue well into the night at previous camps. But here, the snow and wind seemed to form an invisible barrier, muffling all sound. The effect was eerie, and especially so when combined with the inky black darkness that was the entire world beyond the lines of orange light streaming from the house’s windows.

And it was over there, lightly caressed by the edges of the beams, half-hidden in the darkness, he finally spied them – Hamilton and Laurens.

He sighed, exasperated. When they’d disappeared earlier, they had all of course assumed they had merely retired early, as they were increasingly wont to lately. But when he’d passed the open door of their room, empty of occupants, he’d determined to find them, in case something was wrong. Of course they were simply off hidden together again.

In the light, the back of Hamilton’s head blazed copper; they made some slight movement and he noticed that they were holding hands as they stood facing one another, oblivious to his presence.

Wordlessly, Hamilton inclined his face forwards in a kiss, as the French do. But Laurens’ face fell out view, as though he were looking away.

But then, their hands moved – raised. And then Laurens leaned further in, nodding towards the house.

As silently as possible, he stepped back, closing the door behind him, and made his way back upstairs. He’d found them – and he could recognise a need for privacy when he saw it.


	2. Lams - A Double Entente

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter is rated M.

Hamilton sent him a mischievous smile once they finally reached the comfort of their bed, wasting no time in divesting himself of his cravat.

“And now we may finally put those orders into practice...” he said, locking eyes with Laurens so as to ensure his lover was paying proper attention as disrobed.

Laurens scoffed, even as he tracked his dear boy's movements with pleasure. “You're still on that?”

Hamilton merely smiled more widely – that slightly pinched expression of restrained excitement Laurens never tired of seeing – and pushed close enough to kiss John's cheek while he dispensed with his waistcoat.

That afternoon, as they had for some days now, he and Hamilton had been providing their assistance to the newest addition to Washington's camp, the general Baron von Steuben. Naturally, it was their familiarity with the French language which was desired, as the poor baron spoke not a lick of English. This particular day had seen them begin a new task: helping the general's aide Duponceau translate and compose his directions regarding proper weapon usage. This guidance would help to provide some sorely needed discipline for the army, and based on what Laurens had heard from him so far, it could not be doubted that von Steuben was an exceptionally experienced military general with a vast repository of knowledge about military weaponry and tactics.

And yet Hamilton had barely been able to read two lines of their texts without stifling his sniggers like some young schoolboy.

Satisfied with his state of undress, Hamilton leaned forward to press their lips together and then clambered onto John's lap to allow the rest of his body to follow suit against his chest. John sighed into the kiss, hand moving without conscious thought towards his lover's soft hair, the gesture comforting in a way he would never have imagined.

Reluctantly, he would admit that he did understand the source of Alexander's mirth. The instructions had been singularly detailed and specific – and the language used to create that specificity had been...of a very particular kind. But it had certainly been unintentional. It was unthinkable that a respected man such as the baron would have deliberately indulged in such scandalous imagery. Regardless of Alexander's attempts to catch his gaze back then (met only with glares in response), the fact remained that comparisons between such weapons and _that_ part of the male anatomy were hardly new; the Baron could hardly be blamed for his fellow man's saucy minds.

Alexander bit at his lower lip, one palm pressed flat against John's bare lower back, and shifted his thigh over John's lap just so.

...but whatever his complaints, he couldn't say he minded his lover's sauciness – in the privacy of their tent, if not in another man's office.

Laurens was already more than prepared for their activities to move on, but Hamilton was holding back tonight; the slow, firm kiss he placed at the corner of his mouth was a clear promise that he was more in the mood to provoke his lover into action. Laurens angled their mouths together again and kissed deeply, scraping his fingernails over Alexander's scalp, swallowing his hum of enjoyment. Alexander's thighs where they rested over John's lap were warm and heavy and John could wait no longer to run a questioning line up his breeches.

Alexander murmured his encouragement, unconsciously shifting forward. When John reached his stomach and traced the line of his last item of clothing, Alexander removed his hand from John's chest to place it over John's fingers, gently pushing them onwards.

Already light-headed with desire, John fumbled to force the buttons through. Alexander rubbed a fingertip over his wrist and touched his lips to John's jaw, his touch almost maddeningly teasing.

Finally, the garment loosened, John reached inside to find Alexander as eager as John himself felt; Alex let out a sharp, unintended puff of air, and John swallowed thickly. Alex's hand guided John's around himself, sliding it down to the base. His breath tickled John's ear, almost too warm, where he kissed him.

And then he whispered: “Let the piece fall down strong on the palm of the left hand, which receives the swell.”

It took several seconds for Laurens to understand. The words, out of context, were at first unfamiliar, but then he could see their original purpose vividly -

He choked, but Alexander was already shifting their hands again, grinning wickedly.

“Then, bring the hand briskly and place it under the cock,” he said primly.

A laugh burst out of Laurens, uncontrollable, and then he couldn't help himself. He burst out into full-throated, booming laughter, head thrown backwards, shoulders shaking. After a moment he fell forwards, dropping his head onto Hamilton's shoulder, barely able to hold himself up in his convulsions.

“Now now, Major Laurens...” Alexander attempted, but giggles were racking him now as well, and he swiftly gave in, almost falling off Laurens' lap in his delight.

_We shouldn't be so loud, we'll attract attention..._ Laurens thought, but then all he could think of was the image of them both, half-undressed and sweating, a cock hanging out between them, in near hysterics over some stupid jest, and he only laughed even harder, shaking his head against Hamilton's neck.

Finally, he emerged enough to speak. “I can't – _believe_ -”

Still snickering endlessly, Alexander carefully slid from his place on his lap to sit beside him on the bed with a thump. Laurens covered his face with his hand, still shaking his head.

“They did well enough as directions, but I thought – we could perhaps offer a better-”

“Stop, please!”

But Hamilton was still chuckling too, and nudged his knee against Laurens' affectionately, and Laurens merely sighed, deeply and meaningfully.

He finally chanced a look, expecting to find a grin that would have them both falling back into laughter immediately, but Hamilton's expression was almost shockingly soft. When he saw he was being watched, he smiled fondly, vivid eyes glittering.

_What is that for?_ He wondered. _All I've done is laugh..._

“Well,” Hamilton said with finality, slapping his palms on his legs, “now that I've interrupted a perfectly enjoyable interlude with my nonsense-”

“If your nonsense is the only interruption I'll bear, I'll take it gladly.”

Alexander smiled at him, pleased, but then bit his lip again, and crept his fingers forward.

“If that is how you truly feel – but I'll have no further interruptions at the present...”

*

John took the page carefully, placing it down on the table before him. He stared downwards, brow furrowed. The words were simple, of course – it took him only an instant to immediately translate the sentences in his head.

And yet today, when his memory supplied the meaning of the words, they did not come in the neutral tones of his internal voice. Rather, his mind preferred a rather different tone – a soft, husky voice, whispered almost breathlessly -

_Bring the left hand down strong upon the butt..._

Laurens cleared his throat and shifted the page on his desk. He did not once look towards his benchmate.


	3. Lams - Consonant

The first time you hear Alexander Hamilton speak French, it trips you, like a glottal stop where you didn't expect it.

You've heard a lot of French in your life. You've heard the soothing French of your Huguenot mother, the varying shades of Genevan and Parisian and rural dialects, the halting tones of the unfamiliar and little dots of English and Italian and German in second language speakers. This is none of those.

From the way he talks in English, the way he holds himself—chin up and shoulders back as though he has never felt unsure of himself in his life—you had been sure that he was an American native, and a proud one, at that. This accent, however, marks him unalterably as Different.

You don't have the opportunity of listening often. You're both very busy, and your collective fluency is more often employed in writing than in speech. Instead, you are buried by him in English, a veritable cavalcade of ideas and chatter. Now that you know, you can hear it: the stiffness with which he forces some consonants out, the delicacy of his vowels. When he is conversation with the General it is particularly pronounced, morphemes chosen as carefully as his comments sometimes aren't, but even when he mutters to himself as he paces his room or traces lines down his books, there's an affectation there, as though he refuses to let his guard down even for a moment.

You like to listen. Hamilton has a way of dominating a room and a conversation and a relationship, setting everything down his own particular course with the power of a great ship that can only be turned by great effort. He's charming and persuasive while requiring little back, and from time to time, that's embarrassingly comforting. When your thoughts overtake you and your head is in discord, he is there to drown you out, a steady and consistent counterpoint. But the minuscule stalls – the moments where he halts a swinging vowel with a sudden shudder, or diverts an intrusive 'r' at the last possible second – are distracting.

Over time, little by little, you're granted more French. You hear little signs you recognise: the folded murmurs of the shared French and English speakers, letting each language blend like paint just a little into one another. But the rest is still foreign to your ears. There must be the echoes, in this idiosyncratic verb ending or that non-normative glide, of his father and his mother and his birthplace, resonating at some unique combined tone. It's a glimpse, as though through a telescope, into something you're sure now you'll never be welcomed into: the real Alexander Hamilton from before Washington and before America, too distant now to touch.

It's fascinating to listen to, to pick out the differences, relearning one of the two languages you've known since birth. But you also simply enjoy it: something about the timbre, or the tone, that strikes your ear as nothing but pleasant.

You never tell him, of course. You're still not sure why his French is so relaxed where his English is so constrained. Perhaps he doesn't speak it often enough that he thinks anyone will notice. Perhaps he simply hasn't ever listened to 'Proper' French often enough to know how to use it. Regardless, you know him well enough now to know he will take it as a failing and strive to correct it, or accuse you of condescension.

It's not true. You truly do enjoy it. But, you understand it. The need to consider your every movement, and purge anything that might reflect on you badly. For you, it's necessary, but in him, it seems unjust.

Time passes, and Alexander finds other ways to please you with his mouth – labial at the crease of your mouth, dental across the span of your neck, tracing silent gibberish with his tongue over your skin. When his eyes and his body grow heavy and his freckles become almost hidden in the flush, he sounds like any other man, drawn towards pleasure by his beloved. But even here, when he murmurs salacious nothings that you can scarcely remember without blushing, it's in English; it is, in the end, despite reputation, as appropriate a language as French to make love in.

He lies beside you, breathing slowly. This is still one of the few times you ever see him tired – when the endless machinery in his head and limbs slow to the crawl that in the deepest days of your melancholia you sometimes strive for. 

He's unlike anyone you have ever met before.

He asks what you're thinking; you've been staring. You shake your head, but he persists, licking his lips and smiling softly.

You don't have the way with words that he does. In person, at a gathering or an assembly, you can carry on conversation well enough – know how to be polite or flattering or cold or cajoling. But outside of that, the words fly away from you. You don't know how to wrangle them into poetic vistas, landscapes or portraits or still-life to inspire awe and affection. You speak English and French and Italian and Spanish, but you learn mechanically. You cannot use them to create art.

You touch his hair. Alexander Hamilton's French is different – it is sweet and strange, curled around itself and its history as though unconsciously where he is normally so self-aware, open and inward-facing. It is unique; you would have thought at one time that he would take that as the highest of all honours.

It's a part of him you rarely see, vulnerable and soft. It's part of what you imagine when you think of him – but it's not all of it.

When he speaks English, he makes you think of a version of yourself – one that you've spent your life chasing after. It is deliberate, purposeful, controlled and directed. It knows what it is for, and it it knows what it wants – the only hesitation is in how to achieve it. It reaches for you because it wants you, and you want it equally back. 

It lies like a skin over him, like the coats he wears and struggles to keep clean, because it's all that he has. But maybe that is Alexander Hamilton, too. Maybe he is who he tries to be. The two parts, consonant.

I was thinking, you say, that I like to listen to you talk.

His smile widens. He dots a short kiss against your cheek, and then a longer one at your lips.

“Thank you, mon cher,” he says.


	4. Lams - Vanity

The cool fingers of the grass, damp from repeated sprays by the nearby river, was a balm against Hamilton's tired back. He stretched out, pulling his arms above his head and then dropping them to the grass as well, the soft ground more comfortable than more than a few cots he had slept on in the past few years. He breathed in and out slowly, enjoying the feeling of the dappled sunlight filtered through the branches of the giant oak tree towering above them. It was early Summer and already it was difficult to imagine how, at the beginning of the year, he and Laurens had clutched one another together under as many blankets as were available, limbs pressed tightly as the only possible source of heat.

Between the bird calls and the sloshing of the river, Alexander heard a scratching sound he took a few moments to identify – ah, yes. Laurens had brought his sketchbook with him on this trip, hadn't he? If he paid attention, he could he the familiar sounds of the pen against the page, sweeping curves and then small, jagged details.

Alexander smiled and settled a little more firmly into the grass, finding a comfortable angle. No doubt his beloved was producing another portrait of him. Alexander had already been the subject of a great many of them – some knowingly, some not. He had been startled when he had first seen his image staring up at him from a forgotten scrap of paper, but almost immediately he had let his vanity take over, which couldn't help but be plumed by both the talent and dedication of his friend. He still wished that he could provide a more masculine model for John's efforts – now and then he caught a glimpse in passing of a picture and his eyes would unfailingly alight to the unfortunate lines of his jaw and cheeks – but there was something in the way John drew him, with such devotion and care, with lightness and energy and brilliance, that made him feel...

Well. Loved.

For some time he lay there, eyes closed in a sleepy haze, listening absently to the drips and cheeps and rustles around him, breathing in the lush wet natural air that couldn't have felt further away from the dusty scent of their shared cabin. It was so rare that they got an opportunity to relax and even rarer that Hamilton felt truly able to and he took the opportunity in both hands, relishing it fully.

Eventually, the scratching stopped, and after some moments Alexander let his eyes flicker open. Well, with their dip completed and their bodies more than dried, it was about time to return back. In a single movement he sat up and stretched again, rolling his shoulders as he turned to John.

“You were drawing me again,” he said.

John raised his eyebrows, glancing from the page to him.

Alexander grinned. “Let me see it.” He could already visualise in his head the picture – how his lover would capture so expertly the brightness of his eyes and the energy in his smile, as though he couldn't imagine someone not finding Alexander attractive.

John paused for just a moment, eyebrows still raised, and then turned the book obediently.

Alex waited with heightened breath – to be faced with the ugliest, most misshapen bird he had ever seen.

He recoiled in horror, and John started to laugh, hands shaking where he held the picture up.

“I haven't had the chance to sketch outdoors recently, so...” His words were drowned out by laughs and Alexander continued to glare at him, no doubt wearing an expression of utmost offense and betrayal.

Alexander sighed, waiting for his friend's chuckling to end. When it began to quieten, he softened with effort the twitch at his own lips, and held his head imperiously.

“I see how it is – my face was too unpleasant to draw for you today, you couldn't bear to set it down in ink.”

John smiled apologetically, setting the book aside, and leaned towards Alex to take his hand, and press the lightest of kisses against his knuckles.

“You are the fairest of all the inhabitants of this forest – on the contrary, I knew that today my pen could not do your beauty justice.”

Alex tried not to blush – physically willed himself not to duck his head coyly like the many young ladies he himself had flattered. But he could no longer stop himself from smiling stupidly, filled with a bursting sentimentality he could scarcely measure.

“Then I suppose I may forgive you, this once,” he said, more softly than he really intended. In return, John merely smiled.


	5. Gen - Gentleman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [Song of Alexander](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5427092) and associated ficlets.

“How do you think he will be?”

Hamilton raises his head, hands still diligently packing the General's possessions. The Marquis de Lafayette lounges with enviable calm on the other side of the room.

“The new man,” he clarifies, helpfully.

Hamilton considers this, and then shrugs, turning back to his work.

“If his father's letter is accurate, he'll be the most impressive man in America,” he mutters, voice muffled as he reaches deep into the trunk.

Lafayette only smiles wider and crosses his hands over his chest. “That will be good – being friends with _the most impressive man in America_.”

Hamilton snorts.

“But how will he _be_?” Lafayette insists, looking at Hamilton with intent now. “Friendly? Not friendly? Kind? He's our – years old.”

“Age,” Hamilton murmurs, and Lafayette nods immediately in recognition.

“Right! Our age. So – maybe a friend?”

That doesn't sound particularly likely to Hamilton.

But he sighs, sitting back. Of course he's thought about it. As soon as he read the letter, a clear picture had formed in his head, stubborn and vivid and hyper-real. A driven young man from a wealthy, respected family – educated in Switzerland, skilled in riding and fencing and military tactics, speaker of not merely French but Italian and Spanish as well. What he lacks in military experience is more than made up by his impressive talents – and if the letter is correct (which Hamilton highly doubts), his work ethic and morals as well. The charming, handsome young first-born son of the president of Congress, pride of his father, assigned to Washington's camp to aid in the war effort – there couldn't be a better example of the term _gentleman._

The image in Alexander's head is nothing short of _perfection_ – stupidly. Nobody is perfect.

He starts over, as he has done many times before. Sees him in his head, sitting at the family dinner table, his life carefully carved out and placed in front of him, all pristine lines and white linen.

“I doubt it,” he says with a scoff. “You read the letter, didn't you? The way his father talks about him you'd think his mother was Hera herself. I can't imagine he's sending him here to fight – just to be here, and curry the General's favour, get himself a pretty position after the war. Probably been told his entire life that he's the greatest and has never had to accept anything different. I doubt he'll care about the rest of us – except you, maybe.”

It comes out almost in one breath, and it's not until he sees Lafayette's expression – peevish and disapproving in a way he's never seen before – that he realises he overshot his mark.

“You are too _cynique_.” Lafayette purses his lips. And then he says: “It isn't bad, having a papa who loves you.”

Alexander breathes in sharply. Lafayette is still staring at him, cool in a way that makes him awful and uneasy. Eventually Lafayette shakes his head, stands and nods in dismissal.

“I want to meet him,” he says simply, and leaves.

Alexander looks down. Suddenly, he feels very lonely.

_John Laurens_ , he thinks. But he doesn't know what else to say.

_I suppose we'll meet soon enough._


	6. Lams - Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter is rated M.
> 
> Inspired by [this tumblr post.](http://john-laurens.tumblr.com/post/140987601693/is-there-any-indication-ever-of-laurens)

His lips pressed against Alexander's hair, brushed the curl of his ear. Around his shoulder, his lover's arm was taut, fingertips digging almost painfully into John's neck. John breathed out slowly, manoeuvring his hand in the repeated motion. Alexander grunted, thighs pressing down on John's lap as he unconsciously leaned forward, bare chest visibly rising and falling.

“Mmm...” Alexander was biting his lip.

Tightening his grip on Alexander's back to steady him, John hastened his movements. Having been satisfied earlier he felt too relaxed to be overly affected by his lover's passion, but seeing the way Alexander's hips jerked towards him still deepened the red in his cheeks.

Eventually, Alexander exhaled a long, low groan, releasing over John's hand. John stroked two final times and kissed his temple.

Alexander chuckled – or perhaps it was a huff. In a moment he was limp in John's arms, dropping his head to rest against his neck.

“That was wonderful,” he murmured; though it was nothing he hadn't heard before, John still felt his pride inappropriately plumed.

But Hamilton smiled a little strangely and continued to talk. “And I was able to confirm something I'd noticed...”

John frowned. “Confirmed...?”

Hamilton grinned and leaned back, gesturing between them.

“When you rub me off,” he said, as bluntly as ever, “you always use your left hand.”

John stared at him.

He looked down. There they were – Alexander on the right side of his lap, his own left arm curled around John, with John's right hand resting against his back. And John's left hand in the middle.

“Oh!” he said, suddenly flustered. “I – yes, that's – er... When I was a child, I would often try at first to use my left hand for things... Obviously, I was taught otherwise by my teachers, but I was never, erm...”

Hamilton's eyes suddenly glittered as his grin turned wicked. “You were never instructed in this?” he said, deliberately.

John bit his lip, fighting off a sigh. Seeing his displeased expression, Alexander laughed, but hastily kissed his cheek in apology for the image.

“I didn't mean to disturb you. It was merely a curiosity to me.”

John hummed quietly, but relaxed, allowing Alexander to twine his hand through his hair.

“And, at the very least, I can confirm that no such instruction was ever needed...”


	7. Lams - Flirtation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://adhd-ahamilton.tumblr.com/post/155715371477/flirtation) This ficlet will have direct sequels.

The quill tapped lightly against the inside of the ink stand, disturbing the contents with a soft plop. After scraping against the rim, it returned to its place on the page, scratching long, languid letters.

_Yr Affectionate John Laurens._

The nib circled the air over the completed letters, thoughtfully, before being dropped with a clink into the well again, lest an errant black drop disturb the messy lines. Calloused fingers smoothed the paper, careful not to disturb the drying ink. It was rare that he had both the time and the drive to respond so swiftly as he had with this latest letter, and it was a relief that he would be spared of the lingering guilt of putting the task off.

His task completed, John leaned back in his chair, listening to the predictable squeak of wood. This entire room felt familiar to him now – the beds (Hamilton's, at present, covered by books and pages and unusable for its intended purpose), the desks, the window. The wind murmured through the house and against the panes, a soothing presence compared to the wild gusts they had suffered before and would many times again before the winter would pass its zenith. Louder, if less consistent, was the murmur of his companion, speaking softly to himself as he read and copied down noteworthy passages.

John had intended to merely take stock of the situation for a moment before suggesting a shift to the bed, but for the moment he felt too comfortable to disturb anything. This was, it seemed, one of those rare days when the air felt almost temperate, and in the yellow light of the candle, he felt closer to home than he had since he had stepped onto the boat back in England. For several long, blissful seconds, he let himself relax.

It was strange – he had never imagined, fully, this portion of fighting the war. His head had been full of quotes and arguments and half-developed ideas about liberty and tyranny and good government, and he anticipated the physical struggles and clashes of men and arms, but he hadn't thought at all of the quiet moments that would come in between defending his country by pen and by sword. But then, until this winter there had rarely been a spare moment to notice.

And yet, even if he had wondered what he would do for the rest of his time, he certainly would not have expected that he would spend it side by side with someone for whom he now felt so great an affection.

Alexander was sitting at the desk beside him – as always. After a long day of poring over letters and supply lists, a few locks of red hair had escaped his queue and fallen over his cheeks. As John watched, a finger which had been running along a rough page flicked upwards to tuck the hair behind his ear, a strangely feminine motion of the sort Alexander was unconsciously prone to. His lips continued to move, murmuring soft words John could not quite tell apart. At all times his eyes remained lowered, long lashes obstructing his swiftly darting pupils from view, fixed solely on his book.

John became aware, distantly, that he was smiling. 

His breast felt tight. It felt like it had been so long since he had felt this – such untainted, unencumbered love for another person. 

“What are you reading?” he asked; in the quiet of the room, it came out barely above a whisper.

Alexander didn't respond. So focused was he that he didn't even seem to hear him.

John huffed a single laugh. “Alexander.”

After a long moment, Alex leaned back and blinked several times.

He turned to John, eyes unfocused. “Hm?”

His hair had fallen out again. It was terribly endearing.

“I wondered what you were reading. You seemed very focused.”

Alexander blinked again, as though he were finally seeing John properly. And then, he seemed to stop. His eyes went wide, lips just slightly parted. The candlelight illuminated his face better now, turned as he was towards it.

After some moments, John raised his eyebrows. “Still focused.”

“Ah-” Alex abruptly looked away, then down at his book, and then began to pack his things up. “No – it's nothing important. Of minor interest.” Avoiding John's gaze, he set aside his papers, bundling them together with uncharacteristic roughness to replace in a pile.

Bemused, John paused, but there was no reason any longer for remaining up, so John followed, pushing his chair back to prepare for bed.

Here, too, Alexander seemed strangely withdrawn, staring downwards as he fiddled with the buttons of his waistcoat. When he noticed John watching, he swiftly glanced away and promptly continued the work of his undressing.

Had he given some offence? John wondered, a little uneasy, as he blew out his candle with a puff of air. He supposed he had been staring. Had his thoughts been made manifest in his expression? But, they had been nothing bad. It was not wrong to think fondly of a friend.

He mulled it over, concerned, but when he returned to their shared bed and settled down within it, Alexander followed immediately, resting his head down beside John's own.

The warmth – both that from the blankets around him and from Alexander at his side – was a luxurious relief, and John closed his eyes, mind going blank save for the sound of the house creaking around them and the softness of his pillow.

He felt a breath and opened his eyes. Alexander was watching him.

“...I must admit that my pride has been pricked, sir.”

John stared. “What?”

Alexander huffed. “I had fancied myself experienced in these matters – I have sparred with the finest of partners, and believed that I was capable of taking even the most skilful of blows without batting an eyelash. And yet you so easily have me beat.”

John frowned. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Alexander pauses. “Flirting,” he breathes.

John blinks, slowly, as the word settles.

It seems an inappropriate joke – because of course Alexander has flirted with him many times until now, flattering him with raised brows and smiles too broad to be sincere. But he had never hidden it – had made jests in open public, and in clear daylight, of things John would have felt guilty to put into words even within his own mind. It had been discomfiting, but in his admiration of the man (and perhaps his own emotional attachment), he had been content to believe there was nothing behind it.

Because it was good, after all, for two men to become intimate, and mingle their joys and woes, and share in the deepest of their thoughts. Such relationships would bolster a man's capacity for sensibility, and in so doing they would ensure one another's morality, serving as a trusted check to one another and reminding each of the pain of loss and destruction. John had yearned for a relationship such as this since he was young enough to remember – and yet over and over, his own desires had betrayed him, requesting such base actions on his friends that could certainly not be good for them. Even as he tried to wish them well, his body would betray him, revealing the selfishness that still lay within him – a part of him that secretly wanted to disgrace them. When he had met Francis, and found for the first time a willing partner, he had tried in vain to unite these two competing urges within him, to maintain their friendship in spite of their nightly activities, but it had been in vain. Francis, it was clear, had not shared his sympathies. And whatever it was he felt for him, he was now convinced it was not friendship.

So with Alexander, he had been resistant, at first. But as with Francis, he had swiftly become enraptured by the man, consumed with thoughts of him. And Alexander had seemed to understand what John craved from him, that which Francis had never seen – a closeness reminiscent of legend, two men whose hearts were intertwined. So he had wanted to believe in it. That if he pursued this friendship with true love and dedication, that the nature of it would cleanse him, leaving goodness in its wake. He had trusted Alexander to steady him, to keep in sight the same goal that John was striving for.

But for him to broach the subject now - to confess to having been affected by John's actions, while they lie beside one another in bed...

John shivered, itching to shuffle back. “I am not aware of having done any such thing.”

His voice comes out bluntly. His heart hammers; he cannot conceive of what response his friend might give.

He wanted to believe that there is some meaning here that he has missed. He couldn't bear to lose esteem for him.

There was a sharp intake of breath. And then a soft - “oh.”

Before John could speak, Alexander himself shifted across the bed, as far away as the bed allowed. John stared, but then, just as abruptly, Alexander sat up, pushing down on the surface of the bed.

John clasped his wrist in his hand.

Alexander jumped, and flicked his wrist jerkily as though to shake John off, but he held. His arm was shaking.

The panic in him was so familiar – striking John to his core.

“I never intended...” John began, but faltered.

He was aware that Alex was staring at him. John didn't understand why this was happening – he had believed all his life that his vice was exceedingly rare. That had made him feel entirely alone, but it had also been a comfort, certain as he was that he would be able to restrain himself as long as he was never given any invitation...

But his sensibility bubbled up in him, in vain, misdirected – instead of guiding him along the correct path, all that he wanted to do right now was soothe his friend's fear, to not offend this striking vulnerability which John had never been privy to from him before.

If he spoke, it could not be but the truth.

“I...cannot claim myself opposed, if that is true...”

Alexander continued to stare. Sitting up like this, the moonlight blanketed his skin, catching at his eyes where they alight.

His wrist shifted, but slowly; John's hand followed it, clasped loosely around, as bit by bit Alex lay down again. John's skin prickled, as though it understood better than his brain what was to come. A breeze passed over him like a ghost and he shivered. It was too cold to not be tucked securely between the sheets, but he felt paralyzed, held stiffly in place.

Alex shuffled closer, and then closer again. Their noses touched.

He wants...

Their lips touched. John breathed in, deeply – he hadn't realised he'd been holding his breath. Alex pressed further, tilting his head to kiss him more fully. The hand John had been holding worked itself free and locked its fingers between John's smoothly.

Lost, John kissed back.

There was a soft 'hm!' from Alex (or had he done it himself?). The lips shifted, pulling away just a little; John realised after a moment that it was because Alex was smiling. Instead, Alex ducked his nose into John's cheek, almost in a nuzzle, and rocked his hand forward, clutching John's palm closer.

Suddenly overheated, his body rejecting the physical touch it has cried out for just moments ago, John leaned back, and then began to turn over. Alex didn't protest, opening his arms for John to lean into him as they had done so many nights already.

Alex rested his head against John's skull, a hand teasing at the ends of his hair. John breathed in and out, slowly. Alex chuckled – giggled – and John felt a touch at the top of his neck.

“Good night,” Alex murmured, and even in husky whisper he sounded impossibly happy.

John nodded. His throat was too tight.

In no time at all, Alex's breathing slowed – or so it felt. John couldn't say how long he lay awake, Alex's hand hot against his chest. But he could not remain awake forever, and in time, he too fell.


	8. Lams+Hameliza - Marriage

“And it is not only his martial ability! He is proficient in no less than seven languages – and has the gall to apologise repeatedly of his lesser fluency in just one of them whenever he speaks it...”

His Betsey beams tolerably at his side, but he continues immediately.

“And then there is his artistic sense! He has not practiced overmuch with paints, but he has all the basics of the figure in his sketching, so I am already more than confident in his ability to produce works superior to quite a number of portrait artists I have encountered.”

Alexander shakes his head. Despite the cool breeze at his cheek, there is a spring in his step. The company and the subject of conversation couldn't fail to warm him.

“In short, he possesses the finest education, and all of the skills necessary to make the most well-rounded man, and yet somehow he is one of the most humble men I have ever met! Despite better reason than most to puff himself up, he insists on demeaning his own achievements, telling all that other men have the better personality, or judgement... All nonsense.”

His breath rushes out; when had he last stopped to breathe? Yet Betsey only seems even more amused, black eyes sparkling at his talkativeness.

Finally, she speaks, in an interested voice: “And yet he is unmarried?”

Alexander pauses.

He looks at his fiancé for a moment, waiting for the question to make sense. But she stands patiently for his response.

After several long moments, Alexander speaks. “...no? He is married...”

“...oh!” Betsey's hand flies to her mouth. “I see – I thought, perhaps you were... Well, with how you speak to my sister...”

In an instant, Alexander understands, and flushes. “Ah – no, I wasn't intending as such... No, in fact, he is married – to a woman by the name of Manning, I believe, in London – and they have a young daughter... I was merely, erm-”

Betsey places a hand on his arm. “He is obviously very important to you.”

Alexander smiles wryly. 

John marrying Peggy... on a purely self-interested level, he can't deny that he would be pleased. But it is impossible. And it's more than a little embarrassing that his simple praise was so excessive that he was perceived to have some higher purpose...

But Betsey does not seem confused or alarmed. If anything, she seems fond of the strength of his feelings for his friend.

It would be nice, he thinks, to explain more fully... John will hear, eventually, of all the finest points of his wife, explained in as much (though not as little) detail as he requests. And Alexander is confident that in time, he will understand the way his heart has grown around them both – the way it was John's unending support that had allowed him to seek and accept Betsey's love. For all that John still worries about the nature of their relationship, he has never felt so blessed. She deserves to know this – and John deserves it, too.

But it is impossible.

Alexander nods. “Yes. He is,” he says.


	9. Lams - Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to the earlier chapter ['Flirtation'.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8344771/chapters/21146468) As always, all of these ficlets can be found on tumblr [under the my-fanfiction tag](http://adhd-ahamilton.tumblr.com/tagged/my-fanfiction).

“Good morning.”

There's a different tone to the words than usual – a split note's difference that John is conscious enough to notice but still too sleepy to understand. His head thuds at him, eyes unusually heavy, and it strikes him how unusual it is to have difficulty waking.

His lips feel odd, a slight tingle tickling them, but the reason escapes him as he reaches for it, disappearing from view as soon as he catches it out of the corner of his eye. He touches a thumb to his mouth and frowns.

There's a grunt, or huff, as in humour. 

His mind sways, and then all at once unblurs. He remembers.

His heartbeat doubles, but he steadfastly keeps his eyes closed. His chest feels like a yawning wound, aching in regret. He feels as though he's inherited the actions of some other man. He should not have said what he did.

...but. They are on the same page, at least.

He breathes in and out for several moments, and only after preparing himself to act has he must does he open his eyes.

Alexander is sitting on the side of their bed, fastening his waistcoat. When he catches John's gaze, he beams.

“Sleep well?”

He didn't. 

That should have been obvious.

But Alexander is still watching him, all smiles. He bites his lip a moment, eyes travelling over John, darting precisely. His cheeks are rosy and he waits for a response like a boy at a show.

This is wrong.

John ignores the question, carefully schooling his face blank, and raises to dress.

Though it's painful to admit it, John is aware of the proper conduct in this situation. Alexander is not the first man he has kissed in an inappropriate manner. But with Francis, he had awoken filled with fear over what they had done – and had been comforted when his friend had ignored their evening entirely, acting precisely as normal. 

He had Alexander had not done anything nearly so terrible as on that night. Yet, somehow, he feels much more unnerved now.

He dresses slowly, faced away from Alexander. He feels dizzy, off-balance. Younger, he had always worried what would happen if he were given a chance to act out his desires; Francis had seemed to be that very test. But he had accepted the consequences and understood the lesson. He can't tell, right now, the point of this new turn of events. It feels, in the most visceral sense, unnatural; he knows that Alexander is a good man, so what has caused this?

If what Alexander said is true, he should feel ashamed right now. He doesn't deserve it, and John's heart aches to think of him in distress, but his heart aches as hard to think of his friend falling so.

He doesn't notice Alexander's approach until he is standing right beside him.

He gestures - “May I?”

John frowns. The crackling pain between his eyes makes his vision tilt, only the centre of his eyeline in focus. He notices the red of his hair, the dots on his cheeks. But then, he realises Alexander is referring to his hair. John nods, and with almost a bounce, Alexander is moving behind him and gathering it together.

They've done this for one another before – tying a queue properly is achievable on one's own, but difficult, and each has suffered injuries before that would render the task effectively impossible. Each time, John would find himself unable not to notice the way Alexander threaded his fingers through the strands, pulling softly at the back of his neck, and had blamed himself for his strange fixation. 

But now that Alexander manoeuvres his hair, with a delicacy he rarely sees from him, he realises all of a sudden: that Alexander's lingering is, and probably always has been, deliberate.

His skin prickles unpleasantly. That he himself had enjoyed the attention only strengthens his discomfort.

It bothers him again – more oddness, to the point that John wants to call out a trick, or some deliberate deception. Why has Alexander been acting so familiar this morning? So pleased?

The thought had brushed past him, not codified into conscious thought: that Alexander shares the tiny relief that John feels, that as he has already been discovered, he no longer needs worry about it. That John will not abandon him for his as he had clearly worried he would last night.

But Alexander's hands cup his hair so languidly. John can see him out of the corner of his eye, the way he stares at him with understanding, waiting for John's glance to confirm an unspoken assertion.

Alexander expects that they will have sex.

The hands leave him. “Handsome as always.”

John nods, overcome. He doesn't want this, he thinks, but he has no idea what to say, or how he would even begin to broach the subject.

It can't be true. His friend is a good man.

Alexander brushes some invisible dust from his uniform. “Shall we?”

They walk to the room in silence. Alex's pace is light behind John.

When he sits at his table, surrounded by their fellows as they set up their work for the day, the situation feels even more surreal. He has tried to devote himself entirely to the cause of this revolution and the principles for which it stands, but now he feels for a moment the futility of that. 

It is the worst disloyalty to suspect that Hamilton might intend such a thing of him. Hamilton is his friend, and everything he has done has confirmed to Laurens the strength of his devotion to him and to the principles for which they are fighting.

It's true that John had himself broken the law in this way. But he had looked up to Alexander – had seen in him so many qualities that John wished he could model. He was supposed to be better than him.

...and. His mind manifests connections as though denying its own role in their creation: he already knows of Alexander's more permissive attitude toward relations with women. That direction in his desires has already been established.

And even more to the point, Alexander had already revealed to him, in private, the setting of his upbringing...

His eyes snap to the pile of letters on his desk and he begins looking through them immediately.

He won't think on it anymore. He's too agitated, jittery. He needs to work, to remind himself of his position, and to breathe.

He hears, absently, as Alexander sits beside him to do the same. John breathes in and out carefully, vision all white and black.

But then, a huff. “Well, at least we're getting something... Still not nearly as much as I asked for, but I suppose they can't ignore us forever...”

John's shoulders involuntarily tense even further.

Immediately, Tighlman looks up. “What are we still lacking?”

Alexander mutters “Oh, various things...” absently.

John smooths the letter in front of him. There are many important supply numbers he needs to focus on.

Another few moments, and Alex leans his way. “What do you think this says?” he asks, tapping his quill.

Brow furrowing, John reluctantly looks. “'Aussitôt que'.”

“Mm, I'd thought. Honestly, you'd think they could bother to take an extra second or two to write clearly. It's not as though they're dashing it off while on the run from the enemy or any thing.”

John doesn't reply.

“Still, Fleury isn't the worst of it. At this point, at any letter from Clinton I brace myself in advance for the chicken scratch that will await me...”

John can feel Tighlman and Meade's eyes on him, and he realises that he's becoming genuinely annoyed.

Meade hums. “You not have enough to get on with, Hammy?”

Alex snorts. “No, I'm fine.”

John glares down at his letter and tries to breathe out slowly; it comes out as a sigh. He's barely read two paragraphs so far. And it doesn't help when Alexander starts tapping his quill against the table rhythmically.

He feels a touch at his foot and almost jumps out of his chair – and then, almost more on instinct than reason, kicks back at the offending foot.

Alexander grunts, as though he is the victimised party here.

John closes his eyes for a moment. He needs a moment to collect himself, to stop himself from becoming hysterical and leaping to wild conclusions. Then this whole morning would start to make sense. If Alexander would just – _stop_ -

A piece of paper slides towards him. The top holds the beginning of a letter, the last two sentences struck out. And then right at the bottom, an entirely new sentence in a different hand – _Are you feeling well this morning?_

John stares at it.

He sends it back with a new message: _Don't waste ink._

He hears Alexander chuckle. A few moments later, the paper returns.

On it reads: _Then how did you write that?_

John picks up the paper and crushes it into a ball loudly. All of the other aides drop their quills to stare, eyes following as he squeezes it together and then drops it back to his table. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Alexander's brows raised.

Once more, John ignores him.

It isn't long before Alexander begins his quill tapping again. But when John finally reaches the end of his letter, he realises that Alexander has finally given up. Even when he looks over at him, briefly, Alexander doesn't meet his gaze. Instead, he is staring down at his page, not moving.

John feels guilty.

He pushes the feeling back. What he is doing is less than what he ought. He doesn't know why Alexander has been acting so pleased with himself or so desperate for his attention, but he must be aware of what John must be concluding after their previous night. Admonishing his friend for his actions through his silence is the least that could be expected from him.

Somehow, though, his heart is still convinced it's worse than he deserves.

The day passes slowly. John's head still thumps uncomfortable against the inside of his skull, and by noon his eyes are making known their protest at his lack of rest. Thankfully, during this winter, the work is not so urgent, but he can't stop himself feeling bad about how little work he is getting done – especially when it is more than clear that Alexander is faring just as badly.

By the afternoon, John's vision has become so blurry that after over ten tries he still cannot manage to read even one sentence. Pushing a fingernail into the bridge of his nose, he puts the letter back and sighs.

“Not feeling well? Meade asks.

“Didn't sleep much,” John mutters.

“Go ahead. Take some rest.” He gestures with his head. “You and Hammy.”

John tries (and from Meade's expression, fails) to suppress a grimace. Alexander immediately gets up, almost pushing his chair over in his haste.

“Right. Thank you,” he says.

For a moment, John tries to think of any way out of this. He can't do it.

He packs up his things slowly. Alexander is hovering at his side. It's clear now that he needn't have worried earlier how the subject would be brought up after all.

They walk back to their room in silence. Alexander's steps are firm.

John enters second. The moment he does, Alexander pushes the door shut and stands directly in front of him and speaks.

“It is clear to me now that my actions yesterday have offended you. I apologise sincerely – I must have misinterpreted your words, for I only acted because I believed that my behaviour was wanted. But I assure you that I will never do so again if you do not wish it.”

John avoids his eyes. The creeping is back, in his stomach and chest, and the lightness in his head is making him feel sick.

Alexander shifts. “I...I greatly value the close relationship which we have grown until now, so... If there is anything I can do to make up for this obvious mistake, I will do it.”

He ought to nod and tell him that he is forgiven. Or that he is not forgiven, and that he can repent by never approaching John again. Even if John had, oh God, reciprocated for a moment, Alexander had been the initiator. And John believes – has to believe – that he would not breach those lines himself, unprompted. There is nothing to gain here by admitting the truth.

And yet...

Hamilton is one of the greatest men he has ever met. The strength of his passion and commitment and hard work has inspired John beyond measure, cleaving away at the crawling apathy that has tainted his soul this last year. His dedication to this country is more earnest and more real than of any man he has ever met. 

Perhaps he is blinded by his sensibility, but he cannot believe that this man is so beyond hope.

Alexander makes a final try. “I...”

“You did not misinterpret my words,” John admits.

He sighs. Then, with effort, he meets Alexander's gaze. The other man looks shockingly pale – and his eyes are narrowed in clear confusion.

John swallows. He can't do it.

“I...I spoke correctly. I do share...”

Alexander's eyes alight again – but John continues immediately.

“However, it seems I may have given you the wrong impression. I apologise for my coldness today, but I realised only this morning that in my actions, I had – misstepped. And implied to you something which was not true.”

“What do you...”

“I do not intend to act on those desires.”

_Again._

His cheeks are flamed.

“I understand what your feelings are, and I cannot deny that I am the same, but I am entirely opposed to carrying out those – yes.”

Alexander frowns. But he does not look confused any longer.

“...I see,” he says, finally.

John's breath catches. So he was right – Alexander _had_ expected that.

He feels fragile. He had truly wanted wanted to believe in his friend... And he feels terrible, now, for thinking so, of standing by and watching as his opinion of him falls. Because aren't they in the same position, now? What right does John have to claim some moral high ground? He himself has acted on this. He should direct this distaste towards himself, if anyone.

He blinks, and Alexander has placed a hand to his elbow.

His face is close; John can smell the sweet scent of his hair.

Slowly, Alexander's hand trails down John's arm to his hand. He holds it, cradling the palm, and lifts it.

His indigo eyes, too vivid to be real, blaze in sudden passion.

“Then,” he says softly, and kisses the back of John's hand, “...I will be chaste.”


	10. Lams - Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet is a sequel to Flirtation and Morning.
> 
> It also deserves a warning, although it's hard to explain succinctly why. This fic has some sexual content, and deals with Laurens's past sexual experiences. While none of those experiences ever involved any deliberate bad action by his partners (including this one; Alex isn't guilty of anything more than some bad judgement, here), there were many situations where John had little choice in what happened, or disliked all available options, or would have acted differently in better circumstances. His relationship with sex, for many reasons but especially due to internalised homophobia, is not good. If that kind of bad sexual experience is something you'd rather avoid reading about, you should probably skip this.
> 
> However, it is for those reasons that I specifically waited until the next ficlet was completed to post this. _Kiss_ represents the low point of John's relationship with sex in this arc. The next fic, _Love_ , improves upon it, and ends in a much more optimistic place. So, please read that ficlet shortly after finishing this one.

The word lingered in John's ear for the rest of the day, his own tiredness standing in way of it from reaching its goal in his brain: _chaste._

After the enigmatic declaration which had spurred John's heart so to race, they had separated to work on individual projects for the afternoon. But having completed his letter the previous day, John found himself with an unusual absence of activities. He attempted to occupy himself for a time with a book, but with no further pressing need to keep his eyes open, soon surrendered to his need for slumber and laid himself in bed.

There, he breathed in and out, listening to the sound of his friend's pen scratching. Spared of his usual cacophony of thoughts and impressions, the sound was simply relaxing. He allowed himself to be lulled, turning towards the soft sounds until the last vestiges of consciousness escaped him.

When he awoke, just as the day before, Alexander had already risen.

He spoke when John shifted: “Good morning. Are you feeling better?”

John opened his eyes, hesitantly. Once more, Alexander was dressing. And once more, he was looking at John with an indecipherable expression.

This time, John did not feel discomforted. He merely felt unsure.

When Socrates slept alongside a youth whose beauty he extolled, the Greeks threw up their hands and extolled him as chaste. Even they, in their heathen adulation of such an abominable act, understood that restraint was a virtue here.

But to those who knew the word of God, there was no chasteness between men – no admirable restraint. No-one would drink to his lack of lustful action, or medal him his retreating hands. The concept, applied to him and Hamilton, was incoherent.

He wanted to make it coherent.

When Alexander realised he was staring, he turned away. But even before he did so, his eyes had not been penetrating in the way they had been the day before. His head ducked as he fastened his buttons, he was almost demure.

“Good morning,” John said.

Alexander smiled at him, prettily.

He still liked making Alexander smile.

They returned to work as usual. Their fellow aides seemed relieved that the discord of the previous day had retreated; Tilghman had quipped “apologize enough, Hammy?” and Hamilton had nodded with a grimace and without a pause.

During work, Alexander touched his foot again, lightly. John allowed it.

It was a thoroughly normal day – and John couldn't say he was entirely relieved to have his attention refocused on menial supply matters. But it seemed he and Alexander were equally embarrassed by their display the previous day, and spent it mostly in silence, trying to work beyond even their usual pace.

By the time they left for their room, late in the evening, John had immersed himself so fully in his roll that he had almost forgotten the events of the previous day. 

Until Hamilton stretched out his arms and murmured that he was heading directly to bed.

John mumbled a reply, remaining in place as Alexander blew out his candle. Only two days ago, he had awed at the intimacy of this small room – now, the close walls felt far less welcoming.

He wouldn't deny that when he first met his dear friend, back in Pennsylvania, he had initially had... reservations about this possibility. It was entirely normal for two soldiers to sleep alongside one another, even tucked in close, in situations of few beds or sufficiently cold weather; the current climate was a very stern example of the latter. But war was an exceptional circumstance – in any other situation, it would be highly unusual for two men to sleep in such close proximity.

However, in the end, he simply hadn't really had the luxury of objecting. The first night they'd slept together, he had retreated to bed in bone-deep exhaustion and almost collapsed onto the unstable cot. And that was hardly the last time – there was plenty more fatigue to come, and many more injuries, and cold so thorough he would have clutched a boiling pot if it would bring him warmth. And however invulnerable he liked to act at times, Hamilton also was just as human as any man. So, in the end, nothing much had happened. Certainly, male bodies did have certain reactions from time to time, but they were both adults, and were both more than capable of looking the other way when that happened. If Hamilton found the proceedings typical, Laurens had no reason to object. Ultimately, the whole process had been thankfully and comfortably unerotic.

...except now, he knew that Alexander desired him.

John reached for the lapels of his coat hesitantly. Alexander had promised to be chaste, and he was a man of his word. So, it seemed he would discover what he meant by that very soon.

Alexander was awake when John returned. He sighed, sleepily, as John settled.

“Thank you,” Alex murmured.

“...for what?”

Alex shifted, and touched John's hand lightly. “For giving me this chance. I want to be good to you.”

Slowly, he guided John's hand forward again. John watched as, once more, he kissed it.

“Good night.”

As John watched his breathing slow, he felt strangely disappointed.

*

Something had changed.

John Laurens would be hard-pressed to point to any thing fundamental to his relationship with Hamilton which was different now, but there was some sort of sense that tugged at him, convinced him, unable to be put into words. It was the same sense which told him when a painting was attractive or ugly or beautiful – and now, he felt awe-struck. He couldn't name the process by which their bond grew, any more than a sunflower could explain photosynthesis, but he found himself drawn to Alexander more than he had ever been to any one person before.

His thoughts returned to him over and over, mind parsing through numbers and words and diagrams for anything tying himself to him, and each time he gave in and turned to him physically, there Alexander was, as though he had also turned at the exact same moment, delighted in a way John felt too self-conscious too openly express at their mirroring.

There was only one experience which possibly compared: the friendship he had shared with Francis. When the similarity had first occurred to him, John had shied against it on a visceral level. His heart had pounded – he could still remember with savage fidelity how that story had ended. But whenever he hesitated, there Alexander was, soothing his worries with his mere presence.

They were not having sex, he reminded himself. Their friendship was pure. This was, in fact, the way friendship was meant to be, when shared between two equally dedicated and sensible men. So, it was good.

But then there was the kissing.

Back when their friendship had been in its infancy (how it felt so long ago now, regardless that it had been less than half a year still!), they had smoothly fallen into the French style of greeting with kisses on the cheek, and John had not thought a thing of it. But now Alexander had begun to do it more often, and even to kiss him briefly on the lips. It was all done in the spirit of brotherhood, and John found himself reluctant to find reasons to decry it – for too long he had questioned every expression of affection he made towards his friends; make a habit of it, and a man will become isolated and strange, which he desperately did not want to be – but the physicality of his response still felt exaggerated. Was this chaste? There was nothing wrong in and of itself with a kiss. So it must be.

Still, some part of him felt inclined to pretend – to not smile too deeply and to not allow himself to shiver when Alexander pressed his lips to his in the morning.

But he had always been good at reading him, and was only becoming better over time. And somehow, John was sure that he knew.

It became the new comfortable reality for them both. They would speak as candidly as before, and make clear their affection and love for one another – and now, there was the kisses. If it were that alone, John would have been entirely happy, able to suspend himself fully within this shared fondness and understanding, marveling at his fortune at befriending such an admirable and tender man.

But there was one final change which stood in the way of John's continuing good mood: no longer could it be pretended that their sleeping arrangements were entirely proper.

John could deal with the situation on his own. He had always aimed to defuse any sexual impulses in himself, so the difference here was merely one of gravity and consequence rather than aim. Alexander however, it seemed, was less familiar of it.

He did not make another advance again – and for that, John was immensely grateful. But previously, all physical closeness had come with an excuse which no longer existed. Alexander desired him. If he did reach out, John might not decline. And in these trying times, even John's control over himself had limits.

The nights were much colder when he and Alexander could not be close. But he had no choice – Alexander repeatedly pushed himself away, rolling over with a frustrated grunt.

Once more, John felt that strange, nonsensical spark of guilt.

_'Tis well,_ he wanted to say. _I do not care._

But he did. And, whether out of moral principle or cowardice, he did not speak.

*

Alexander was tapping his quill again.

John looked over, in sympathy. His friend was glaring down at the page before him, chewing distractedly on his thumb. His foot scraped against the floor jerkily.

John put his quill down. “Are you feeling well?”

Alexander grunted, and then sighed; as though he had been waiting for an excuse, he threw his quill onto the table and stretched out his arms above his head.

“J'st...frustrated.”

His arms fell and he rubbed his hands over his face. “We're barely doing anything here – merely... bare minutia, day in and day out. And all the while, our fellow men are freezing – dying of disease, naked and lacking in food – there is so much that needs to be done, and all we are capable of doing is reading over supply lists and trying to find the twentieth possible way to request more in the hopes that this time we'll find the magic words!”

His outburst only seemed to energize him, and he leaped to his feet to begin pacing.

John pursed his lips and tried not to let himself be rattled as well. “It's merely the weather,” he said.  
“The British are stuck in place just as we. We're not losing ground.”

“I know that,” he snapped. “As well as I know that I haven't any cause to complain, residing in a proper room with a cot and a dinner in my stomach. It only increases my agitation. If only we could do something – if _I_ could do something-”

John rose and took his hand. Immediately Alexander stopped moving.

“Perhaps we should sleep. You cannot work at the moment.”

Alexander avoided his eye, as he tended to when he felt vulnerable. He sighed. “So be it.”

John packed his things, wondering how to comfort him today; it was not uncommon for Alexander to become so agitated, and John dearly sympathized with his temper, but this disquiet had seemed even more pronounced than usual lately...

...which John realized, with belated chagrin, was entirely his fault. Hamilton was accustomed to finding willing women wherever he turned – if John were female, men all over would cry at the unfairness of his position and the saintliness of his restraint. John knew, from unfortunate experience, that the naturalness of the urge did not change the difficulty or method of dealing with it. It was no wonder he felt restless.

...and John could not truthfully say that he did not sympathize keenly.

They followed one another under the blankets, as usual. John's heart was unusually rapid as he waited to hear how Alexander continued.

He was biting his lip. After a moment he grunted again, and shook his head.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” he mumbled.

John's heart increased its pace again. Alex had never asked like this before – not in words.

“You may.”

Alexander leaned in, unusually uncertain. He kissed John... and remained there a moment, before retreating.

John licked his lips.

They were both quiet. It was a cloudy night; the room was a nigh-impenetrable black, scattered shades of grey crafted dully by camp torches through a small window. He could not see Alexander's expression, but could imagine him perfectly in his mind's eye, lying on his side in his usual position, blankets bundled up to his neck. 

“...it would be asking too much ,” he murmured, “to wonder if I could kiss you for some time, would it not.”

_For some time._

John bit his lip, chest thudding.

He had drawn a line before them both, back then: they would not have sex. It had seemed at the time like a perfectly clear and unambiguous statement. There were many good reasons to hold themselves to this specific standard, all else aside – morality, the law, his own feelings of guilt and disgust.

This, he found himself thinking slowly, did not cross that line.

A part of him sat up, alarmed.

But the more he thought it, the easier the words came. He had already concluded that a kiss was not wrong; how _could_ an act so simple and unadorned be? If it were, then they were already condemned, merely for their behaviour over these last two beautiful weeks. He could not believe that.

And then, the line of logic followed, how could the length of an activity decide its virtue? Actions were right or wrong – it was not as though a bad activity could be acceptable if done only briefly, or a good practice turn immoral if done for too long.

And then there was Alexander. His present state, he was now sure, had been instigated by himself: he had known that Alexander was prone to these fits, and did not do well with frustration, and yet had failed to even attempt to ease his discomfort. Even in the throes of romantic affection, an immoral action could not be necessitated, but John could have a duty, in the general sense, to do _something._ And this was merely a kiss.

His body hummed, like a vibrating cord. This was the cause of his unease; he heard again the voice that had worried about his enjoyment over his friend's shorter kisses. But he could not put his own weakness above his friend's need. He would simply resist it, as usual.

“You may,” he said, all of a sudden.

Alexander's breath caught. “I – genuinely?”

He wished Alexander wouldn't question it. “Yes.”

Alexander shifted. It was so much warmer when they were close, and John instinctively reached for his touch, opening his arms for Alexander to lie beside him.

His friend breathed against him for a moment. Their noses touched, warmly. John felt an urge to lick his lips again, but kept himself perfectly still.

Alex kissed him, slowly. At first it was not dissimilar from the kind of kisses he had given him recently – short and simple. His hand rested on John's arm, just below his shoulder. And then he kissed him again, longer, longer.

A warmth swept through John, spreading from his face down his arms and legs to the ends of his fingers and toes. Immediately he felt his body reacting, desire overtaking him in the space of a blink.

He breathed in and out, but Alex pressed forward again, kissing him repeatedly – slow, sweet pecks.

This was not a good idea.

John swallowed. He consciously kept his body still again, limbs stiff with tension, but it was as though he were ticklish, or his skin enflamed – every touch snagged at him, catching him like a hook.

There was no direct memory, in his mind: he and Francis had never kissed like this. At best, he had buried his head in John's neck, sucking at it as he had reached for him, his cock rubbing against John's leg.

But that had been a long time ago. And here was Alexander, now – his body aligned with John's, his tongue on John's bottom lip...

John's fingers curled in Alexander's shirt. It was truly a fever, oppressing his reason. He'd utterly forgotten this – the intensity of it, the sweetness of it, the ache in his cock, barreling him over where he lay, defenceless-

It happened all in an instant, before he was aware of it. He clutched tightly to Alexander's front, and then breathed out – then stopped.

He was frozen in place. Alexander had stopped moving, too. His friend moved his head back, parting their lips. John's eyes were tightly closed, but he would not be able to see Alexander even if they were open, nor he him, and for that he was monumentally grateful.

He was speechless. Even feeling deserted him, for a moment, as though his heart could not understand what had just happened.

It licked at him, paused, and then drenched him. The shame of it, the regret – his face had never burned so, his hands so shaken. His breath stuttered; he couldn't seem to take in any air.

He'd _tried_ , he thought with desperation. He'd really tried – to not do anything to disgrace himself, nor break the law. He had drawn a line, obsessed of it – ensured, he'd thought, that even if he stepped beyond propriety, he would never again breach this last fundamental rule – No matter how difficult it became, he'd really _tried_ -

But that was a joke, wasn't it?

The bitterness rose in his mouth, enough to make him want to spit. Kissing, _for a while_ – to soothe his friend's agitation! To repay him for inciting such unnatural desires in him! What man could possibly believe such a ridiculous thing. 

No, he had tricked himself, with sly cleverness – sophistry allowing himself to take one step closer to his true goal. If this had succeeded, he would have proceeded further – always at Alexander's behest, always using him as an excuse – until he had found some minuscule fraction of distance, some inappreciable separation between him and this. He had no-one to blame but his self.

Alexander's thumb was rubbing a circle against his arm. “'Tis all well...” he murmured.

He couldn't escape himself – his skin was all around him, covering him. It was a worse discomfort than any illness he had suffered yet. It felt as bad as the last time – as every time.

Even knowing that only he alone was to blame, his heart protested at the unfairness of it. Whenever he heard his fellow men speak of sex, it had always been as some elusive reward, something they chased after and cornered – and yet, every time, it had simply _happened_ to him, regardless of his own decisions. It had been Francis who reached for him, each time, while he laid passive; with Martha, he had at first been almost delirious with grief and drink, and then had touched her only as a consequence of her chance pregnancy. And now this. He couldn't escape it.

He wanted to do right. He had yearned for it, since he was a child – to be known as a true and good man who brought forth justice and prosperity, but even more so, to _be_ such a man. To know what was right and what was wrong and always strive for the former – to make any sacrifice necessary for the wider good. And yet, at every turn, his truest self seemed to rebel against this. That which was good revolted or bored him, and his passions so often led to reckless impulses, if not outright sin. What was wrong with him, that acting good was so incompatible with his fundamental nature? Why was it that everything which his body wanted must come at some other expense?

It was inevitable, he now realized. There would always be opportunities, and he would take them, eventually, whether he knew it or not. The efforts he made to obey the law were for naught. He would always return to this place, in time.

The finality of it calmed his hysteria, familiar apathy and resignation growing over his vision like splotches of ink. He could hear Alexander's breath, and focused on it.

“...would you rather I stop touching you?”

John's heart spiked again. He still felt oversensitive, an unattended match – but Alexander's hand was grounding. He had not yet turned away in disgust.

After everything he had demanded of him. After he had held himself up as the arbiter of their actions, condemning his friend in his deepest thoughts.

“No,” he said.

Alexander shifted forward, touched their noses again for a moment.

“Would you like to change?”

John swallowed. “Mm.” He rose, startled by the coldness of the air around him, cooling his sweat instantly. Shaking, he removed his shirt. For a moment he wondered, panicked, how he would explain how it was dirtied – but there was nothing to say that it had not simply happened while he was asleep. Embarrassing, still, but not criminal.

As he pulled on a new shirt, he heard Alexander speak, so quietly he almost didn't catch it.

“Something like this happened to me, once.”

The thought was so unexpected that for a moment it totally distracted John.

With a man, he must mean – there would be no comparison, otherwise. But it was impossible to imagine Alexander hesitating as he did, so he could not imagine the circumstance.

“Who with?”

He entered the bed again, relieved at the comfort of it. It took Alexander a long time to speak.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I knew I was pushing you, but-”

“I freely chose. You gave me the option.”

Alexander sighed. He sounded very tired. “...I wouldn't have minded. I'm not – I want to do that with you. If you choose to.”

John felt tired too. This was much more complicated than it had ever been with Francis. He wished that Alex hadn't asked at all.

“I could stop kissing you. I don't want to do anything that would...”

John wasn't sure that such an option existed.

The fight had left him. They had already overstepped, in the eyes of those who decide the law. And he had already left this mark on his soul, years before. Any of his friends would turn away already for what he had done. What use was there in resisting any more?

“I don't know.”

Alex murmured his acknowledgement. For a moment, there was silence, save for the wailing of the wind against the thin roof and panes.

“...well. I suppose it is good night,” Alexander mumbled.

“Good night.”

Immediately, Alexander turned over. John leaned against him, still vulnerable to his body's need for warmth however else he might have preferred to sleep. As he reached his arm over Alexander's side and Alex took his hand, holding it carefully, he realized that Alexander might have been affected by what they were doing as well.

But he was tired. And the night was always the same – dark and featureless and empty. Inevitably, they fell asleep.


	11. Lams - Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is a sequel to _Flirtation, Morning,_ and _Kiss._ It includes sexual content.
> 
> If you're reading this from a new chapter notification, I'm posting two ficlets today, so you should probably go back and read _Kiss_ first.

Hamilton wasn't avoiding him, but it felt like he was.

Laurens had woken in some desperation the next morning, panicked at the thought of how his friend would treat him after the night before, but when Alexander awoke, he found himself on the receiving end of the exact dispassionate gaze he had expected two weeks ago.

“Morning,” Alex had mumbled as John pushed up from the cot.

John immediately tried to disguise his glance, but Alexander's eyes were still closed.

“Good morning.”

Alexander had breathed in and out for a moment, prone, before he slowly began to rise.

“Hmph,” he'd muttered – and just when John became anxious once more, he said simply, “well, it's as cold as ever.”

“Yes,” John said.

They went to work as usual, no further words between them.

John was, at first, immensely relieved. For so long since Hamilton's kiss he had felt out of place, off-kilter; here, finally, was a reaction he understood. They had done something unspeakable, and were therefore not speaking of it.

...or, John had, at least.

But Alexander's behaviour was not temporary. He continued to remain unreadable throughout the day, and then into the evening. When the next day came and Alexander's treatment remained that of a somewhat distant friend, it became impossible to deny any longer that the intimacy which had grown over the last two weeks had become unsustainable.

It hurt – shockingly so. 

But now, he was beginning to think he understood. Alexander was as troubled by his desires as he was. And he was troubled even more so by the knowledge of what he had instigated in John. It was also possible that he truly was disgusted with him – it was hard to say for sure. John could hardly be angered if he were, when he himself had felt so hypocritically discomfited by Alexander's intentions with him.

The distance allowed him space, at last, to think. For that, he was exceedingly grateful.

He desired Alexander – desired men. Alexander was the same. And he was now quite sure that he was not the first man Alexander had been with in this way. They both were unable to entirely resist these impulses. John was convinced: they would, sometime before they parted ways forever, have sex.

He wondered if he knew this fact the same way he knew that he would die before the war was over.

He gazed out at the seamless white that stretched far beyond their camp. He could see mountains in the distance, and patches of dark evergreens. It reminded him of Geneva – but there was no roaring fire nor sumptuous meal waiting for him back in his room. The man who had once partaken of such pleasures without a second thought now felt entirely foreign to him.

Perhaps it would be best if they were to simply do it. It was not a bad time for it. They had the privacy of four walls and a door, and the likelihood of interruption was stunningly low in these malaise-drenched weeks. They were unable to avoid sleeping alongside one another, too; the discomfort of that could not be ignored as a factor prompting swiftness. They could do it, and be done with the urge, for now. 

There was no joy in the thought. He could not even muster the strength to hound himself for his excuses any longer. It was no excuse to admit that he could not restrain himself.

But, he didn't want it to happen as it always had. He was tired of constantly being thrust into this position. If they were going to have sex, then John intended to decide it himself.

And if he was to do so, he did not want to do it with anyone but Alexander.

He slumped at the window. As he had given up denying his instincts, he could no longer try to force their friendship into something it was not. He had wanted, desperately, to have the kind of pure and moral friendship he had long heard of. When Alexander had offered the monikers Damon and Pythias, he had been overjoyed. But it felt that the only thing his sensibility had directed him to do was accept greater and greater immoralities. Even now, his heart ached to see his friend so aloof. The closeness that had developed so recently had always held the distinct edge of unseemliness – the same unseemliness Laurens always inevitably detected in himself with his friends – but he wanted it back, still, desperately. He would do anything to return Alexander to him, if he would have him.

If Alexander were truly avoiding him because of his disgust, then John's proposal would ensure that their friendship would never recover. But John could not avoid the truth any longer.

When the sun set over snow, it seemed to catch against every crystal of ice and entice them all to glow, sparkling like jewels against every surface. On a cloudless night like this one, even hours after night fell, it would appear as though those shining pieces had been quietly collected in windowpanes, refracting an over-real glow onto the picture beyond.

John settled onto their cot. Beside him, he could see Alexander as clear as day, arranging the blanket over his shoulders and twisting into position as though this were any other night.

John had considered his thoughts carefully for three days. But now, he was certain.

“I think we should have sex.”

He watched, intently, as Alexander reacted – as his eyes blinked open, steadied, and then pierced directly through John's in return.

He didn't speak for many long moments.

“Genuinely?” he said.

John nodded.

Alexander still seemed shocked. But then, when his expression changed again, it transformed into something else – something entirely unfamiliar.

“Why?”

John frowned, discomfited. But Alexander stared at him unfalteringly, forcing a response.

John closed his eyes. His head throbbed. Once more, he found himself wishing that Alexander would not make him speak of this aloud. But, there had been no need for John to spell out his intentions a moment ago, either. 

“...I...believe I will do so, inevitably,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “So, I believe it for the best.”

Alexander's brow twitched, furrowing more deeply. Still he stared at John, with a penetrating intensity he had never felt before from any person. Even his father had never looked at him like this – as though he were trying to see through his skin into his bones and arteries.

When Alexander spoke, his voice cracked. “How do you feel about me?”

The question left John speechless.

“...I'm sorry, I-”

“Do you love me?”

Pain was written in Alexander's eyes, in the line of his mouth.

“...of course,” John said, breathless. “Have I ever given you any reason to doubt?”

Alexander closed his eyes.

He moved his body beneath the blankets, shifting; arms and legs and torso. John truly had no idea what lay within his thoughts.

“...when do you wish to go ahead with it? Now?”

John's chest thumped, and he nodded. “Yes.”

Alex nodded as well. “Right.”

John swallowed, and waited.

The air was cool, but he barely felt it. For all that he had decried his own lack of restraint, he now felt a very curious equilibrium. There was the desire, of course – Alexander was as attractive as ever, and his mind certainly had no difficulty conjuring up the sensations of physical pleasure that would follow tonight. But there was a part of him which still held back – the reasonable portion of his mind which, now that it had been let out, could no longer be brushed aside as it had been the other night.

His skin itched. Any moment now, that passion would overtake his friend, and he would seek out the desperate touch he had evaded for so long.

But after several long moments, they both remained still, disturbed only by their breathing.

A heat pushed up against the bridge of John's nose, spreading down to his cheeks. Certainly, he had been the one to make this suggestion, but surely that did not necessitate he take the lead... Alexander had never before expressed any unwillingness to take on such a role – on the contrary, John had been disturbed at the seeming ease with which he had reached out to him...

But the silence continued, and it soon become very clear that Alexander did, in fact, expect this.

John's stomach gnawed at him. He found himself regretting his decision already, again – but for an entirely different reason than the last time.

He felt hot – uncomfortable. He was intensely aware of his own cowardliness. Even after initiating this situation, still he had expected to rely upon his friend – had assumed that Alexander would behave just as his Francis had. He hated his action, and he hated his inaction.

He reached for Alexander's arm.

It was stiff beneath his touch, but relaxed immediately. He thought he felt a puff of breath, as a sigh. 

It steeled John. The movement was oddly reassuring, now that he understood. Alexander felt no more comfortable doing this than he did.

He pulled himself closer to Alexander, who followed, and kissed him.

Within moments, his tongue was sliding against Alexander's. The other man made some muffled squeak, and curled his arms around John's body, one hand tangling in his hair. It was a nice gesture, but John did not intend to appreciate it.

Without ceremony, he reached his hand beneath Alex's shirt.

Alexander broke away, suddenly. “Ah- ah...you wanted to, go first?”

Did Alexander think he ought not to, after the other night? His cheeks burned, the sensation exploding immediately into his front mind like Alex's kisses hadn't. He realised only then that it had been happening – this strange separation of his consciousness from the experiences of his body.

“Mm,” he mumbled irritably, grabbing Alex's hip for emphasis.

Alexander murmured unintelligibly, stretching out his body in comfort. “Then I lie in fond anticipation...” he teased.

John took him in hand.

It was strange, feeling this again. It was the most that he had ever done with Francis, and only ever as repayment for what he did to him – as though God would watch and nod, and grant him measures for evenhandedness against his darker failings.

Here, again, he felt it – through the thick panes of abstraction presently sparing him from the true depths of his feelings, there still lay within him that spark of satisfaction. In the end, he enjoyed this.

He kept his eyes open, deliberately, as he stroked Alexander. He noted the darkness of his cheeks and the way he gasped for breath; the touch of his hair against John's neck and the pull of his hands in his shirt. He wanted to remember this, in its entirety – to save each moment as a painting, of the air above them and bed beneath them and the scent of salt and perfume against his nose.

When Alexander released, muffling his voice in the hollows of his neck, John felt, in every part of this thing he called a body, that it was good.

Alexander continued to breathe heavily, in and out. John swallowed, finally, and gave him time. When he took his hand back to clean it, he realised that he was shaking as well.

Alexander's hands moved before the rest of him – one burrowing into his hair to hold him tightly, and the other tracing up to his neck. He felt his lips, hot and soft and slow, press firmly against his skin.

His breath caught.

A chuckle. “Thank you very much...” Alexander whispered, before puffing air against him. John started at the unexpected warmness, and then sudden coolness. He was very, very hard.

But, Alexander's affection continued. He drew a circle around the place where he had kissed, and tangled his ankle lazily around John's own.

“Was this your first time? With a man...”

John shifted, agitated. It did not seem gentlemanly to rush him. If Alexander wished to enjoy this period of sleepy contentment, John did not wish to push him. 

But his pace was being upset, and a familiar anxiety was returning. Every moment he and Francis spent on their activities had felt like a chance in and of itself of discovery. Even knowing the relative safeness of their setting, he wished Alexander would simply get on with things.

“No.”

Alexander stopped moving entirely. “I did not know that!”

John was not certain how to respond to that. Part of him was relieved; the other, irritated.

“Erm,” he said, instead.

Alexander understood instantly, and chuckled. “Apologies! I won't have this be uneven, after all...”

John closed his eyes, relaxing against the mattress. His pulse leaped again, excitable. He had enjoyed giving Alexander pleasure – but this, he was sure, would finally give his body rest.

Alexander kissed at John's lips again – but when John surged to meet him, he pulled back, and kissed by his cheek again. He kissed his jaw, his chin.

He kissed at his neck, but not as Francis did. John squirmed, but Alex was careful, soft where a mark might be made.

A warm hand was smoothing up his back, flat against him as though to touch as much surface possible. John caught a glimpse of his eyes, before he closed them to kiss him again, softly; they were a deep, deep blue.

...this wasn't what he had expected. John frowned, unsettled.

Just moments ago, all physical sensation had felt muffled. But now, the way Alexander was watching him seemed to impart every touch with some much higher meaning. It bypassed John's blocks, knocking them down from the inside, bit by bit.

Another kiss, at his earlobe; never had such an insignificant portion of his anatomy felt so important.

“John...” Alex murmured.

He kissed his collar and his shoulder. Everywhere he looked, he seemed to find more places to kiss – skin John must have always known existed, but only in the theoretical.

Alexander's gaze was focused, his lips parted as he trailed his fingernails up John's chest.

There was a warm breath near his ear and John jumped. “Too much?”

It was. He wasn't sure how.

 

Alexander returned to his lips, kissing him with a sweetness he had never known he craved.

His hands trailed to his thighs. Alexander touched him with care, with wonder. It felt...the opposite of how he had felt the other day, intensely uncomfortable in his skin.

Finally, Alex took him in his hand. John's breath hitched, suddenly anticipating the heavy grip, but his friend stroked him with care, the undersides of his fingers tracing the lines.

He hummed softly against John's ear. “It feels lovely...”

John felt, suddenly, like he wanted to stop.

He opened his eyes. Alexander was watching him, intensely. He stared back at him, his throat entirely constricted. Alexander's eyes were wide.

After a moment, Alex softened, brow furrowing in concern. “Are you well? Should I stop?”

John didn't understand this. He felt laid bare, dissected. Alex's eyes were so warm.

This was not, ever, how this had happened with Francis.

He felt lost again, in space. He could not be pin-pointed on a map. He could only be understood in terms of Alexander. His chest was so full – it was all too much, too suddenly.

Alex moved to take his hand away. Instinctively, John grabbed his arm.

Still, the words didn't come. He ducked his head, trying to make sense of the turmoil in his chest. _Please stop talking_ , he wanted to say.

His fingers curled. He wanted Alexander to finish, already – get him off as he had him. He _had_ wanted that. Now, he felt...

“...no. Please...continue.”

Alexander kissed his forehead, lightly.

He took him again, without hesitation.

John's body responded instantaneously – the intensity of emotion brought on by Alexander's touch now felt like an explosion, centralised beneath Alexander's hand but existing everywhere. He had never felt so desperate, skin burning with heat and desire.

The steadiness of Alexander's strokes only seemed to fan his flames further as he gasped against him, struggling alongside him, fingers digging into Alexander's flesh through his shirt. All he could think about was Alexander.

Alexander – who had been so kind to him, who had challenged him, who had pried open the most secret parts of himself to show to him out of trust, who had seen the worst of him and held his hand all the while. His dearest.

When he reached his ecstasy, he felt Alexander kiss him again.

It took him a long time to recover. Even as the shocks left him, his body felt over warm, over touched. But strongest of all was the ache in his chest.

Alexander held him, and stroked his hair.

The deed was done. He ought to pull back and turn to sleep, as he and Francis had inevitably done. Now, their desires had been met, and they could move on from this frustrated tension. Things would become normal again.

But this, John could no longer deny, was not like how it had been with Francis at all.

It had been niggling at him for weeks now. Whenever Alexander had looked at him with such hope in his eyes, itching to touch him again; whenever they had kissed, and he had seen his slow, honest smile. The intensity of his feelings for him – they must be alike to how he had felt for Francis; there was no other experience which could possibly compare.

But Alexander was so gentle.

Alexander wasn't being Francis. He was being, right now, the way John had tried to be with Martha.

“...was that good?” came Alexander's soothing voice, close by. “You're tense...”

The finger traced against the edge of his hair, where it met his skin, and John shivered.

He felt too full of feelings, and none of words. His heart ached – a physical, biological pain, as though his body could not take such strong affection.

“...yes,” he said. “It was...lovely. I'm simply...confused.

His eyes cracked open.

The air was so still. Even their movement had not disturbed it, as a stone in a pond. A beam of light cast through the window and fell over his friend. He had never seen a man so beautiful.

“...confused? Why?”

He had gazed into her eyes, deeply. He had kissed her hair, had brushed her cheek with his thumb. He had told her that she was beautiful, and he had meant that.

But he hadn't felt like this.

“I didn't...expect it to be like that.”

Alexander tilted his head closer. It felt as though their bodies overlapped, occupying the same space. But that could not be true, because he had never felt so human or so real.

“Like what?”

There was only one thing he can say in response, but he held it close for a moment, protecting it like a newborn. His eyes pricked.

It came from inside him – from the depths of his body, the earliest crumbs of his history.

“...loving,” he whispered.

Alexander was silent for a long time. John waited, worried beyond measure at his response.

“...but of course it was,” he murmured.

A light touch, to John's hand. A final time, Alexander raised it – touched John's fingertips to his lips.

“How could I not do that lovingly?” he asked, lips brushing against his skin. “When I touch your hand, I do it with love. When I speak your name, I speak my love. When I meet your eyes, I send my love. In every action that I take to you – in every movement of my body – I cannot help but love you. How could this be any different?”

He's heard so many stories in his life – damning morality tales hurled ferociously from the pulpit; lurid scandals of strange men in other places and bizarre acts. He's never heard a tale like this one.

“It isn't supposed to work that way.”

“It does for us,” Alexander said, simply.

John bit his lip. His every emotion crossed his face without filter; there no longer seemed any need to keep any of himself from Alexander.

Alexander splayed his fingers out, and kissed down them, then buried his mouth in his palm.

“...John.”

“Yes?”

Alexander's foot rubbed nervously against John's ankle.

“...I would like to consider us lovers, if you will consent.”

John's brow creased. The idea made no more sense than had Alex's promise to be chaste. But there was no falsehood here. Alexander meant this request, as fully as John had meant every word he had said tonight.

He still didn't understand what Alex made of them. But maybe, in time, he would.

“...yes. I would like that.”

Alexander closed his eyes. He kissed John's palm again, the inside of his wrist. John shivered.

“Thank you.”

John raised his other hand. Alexander's hair was soft, threads of silk against his palm.

Alexander moved without resistance as John guided his head forward and kissed him.

His first instinct had been to tell Alexander that no thanks were needed. But that was not quite true.

“Thank _you_ ,” he murmured, as close to Alexander as possible, “my dear boy.”


	12. Lams - Flora and Fauna

Stepping outside still feels like opening up a dream. After what has felt like years of nothing but featureless, dismal grey covering every visible surface, finally the sun's rays are beating down with enough strength to overcome the cold. Which each newly revealed patch of grass, Alexander can feel the collective spirit of the army soar, having been wearied beyond measure by the long winter but now, at long last, promised brighter days to come.

But no sunlight, however strong, could ever compare to the warmth of John's hand in his own as he leads him onward.

Snow still crunches under their shoes occasionally, and Alexander eyes warily at the larger clumps clinging to branches as they pass beneath, but John's light steps and cheerful smile push aside all other thoughts from his mind.

“It's honestly _impossible_ , being cooped up like that for so long,” he says for the hundredth time. “Outside, here, in this air-” he pauses to breath in deeply “-is where we truly belong.”

“I agree entirely,” Alexander says, honestly. 

“I wish we had more time for this, when the weather permits. To simply walk.”

Abruptly contradicting himself, John suddenly stops, standing in place as he looks around.

It really is a beautiful sight. It's a gorgeous area – tall, thick trees, leafy bushes, and the constant scritter and rustle of life all around. And all around, there is green – deep green ferns, mottled green leaves, and pale green grass rippling in dark earth.

Greens, and...

Alexander's eyes catch on something, and he crouches beside it to look.

“Ah... flowers, already!”

They're small, their yellow trumpet-shaped bulbs swaying tiredly. There's something about them that can't help but tug at the heart of an exhausted soldier, beauty and determination in one delicate figure.

“Really!” John is kneeling beside him in a moment, gazing at the flower with equal awe. “Yes, of course... I think I recognise them. Agrimonies – I remember seeing them, back in Charles Town, at the beginning of each spring...”

A smile pushes its way onto his face. “You're a naturalist,” he teases.

But John nods modestly; it has the exact opposite effect intended. “I quite enjoyed studying the natural world when I was younger – you've noticed my sketches, I think? But I was never able to pursue it. I was given the offer to travel, but I suppose other aims called louder...”

“I never knew.” Alexander cocks his head. “I can sort of understand, though I never studied that area much myself... I admit, it sounds rather... less exciting than I thought you preferred.”

“Not at all!” John's eyes gleam as he leans forward, arms resting on his knees. “The natural world is marvellously interesting – you've studied anatomy, of course? Well, it is simply that – instead of the world within us, it is the world around us, pulsing with life and change. It is a constant cycle of death and rebirth, tenuously held within a perfect balance – what could be more exciting?” But, he chuckles. “Well, at any rate, it was not all flowers, anyway – I have always been very fond of animals as well. There were many cows near where I grew up, and a lot of birds of course as well... And, oh – once, I was granted the incredible opportunity to observe a soft-shelled turtle! It had such a strange appearance, and yet one could not help but be charmed by its placid nature. We tried our best to tempt it with food, but sadly were unable to entice it closer...”

He trails off, but Alexander is already lost in thought.

“...hm.” He taps his chin. “...sorry, I was just reminded... Well, I can't speak to the tactility of their shells, but I think I may have seen a turtle myself, once or twice...”

“Did you?!”

John almost falls over in his excitement, entire face lighting up. “Of course, the West Indies – they must be common there! Did you see many? Did you get close?”

Alexander half-smiles. “Er, no. I heard many stories, but all I ever saw was crashing waves... Others said it was the trail of a turtle, but I had no way of telling...”

John groans, head dropping. “What a shame! I can only imagine the varieties that must exist there...”

“Mm.”

“I'd like to travel there, honestly.”

Alexander raises his eyebrows. “Would you,” he says, mildly.

“Very much so!” John's eyes shine a deep blue. “I was given the chance to travel to the southern isles... But in the tropics alone, there is still so very much still to be discovered! Over the last century, we have made an incredible progress cataloging and describing the species of Europe and America, but it seems that for every new plant or bird discovered within the jungles, two more appear, even taking into account the greater difficulty of such exploring... When such discoveries are still made even here, who knows what might lie lurking within those forests? It's enough to make one believe that some ancient legend is true, and there is something entirely magical awaiting us...”

Alexander sits properly onto the ground. He's not at all convinced John would find what he's searching for in St. Croix. 

But - “you're very passionate.”

John shrugs, as though suddenly embarrassed.

Alexander grins. “It's endearing.”

John smiles back.

Alexander leans forward to curl his arm around John's. “You must tell me about it all, when spring comes proper. I'd love to hear you.”

“It'll be my pleasure!”

Despite the receding winter, John is, as always, warm.


	13. Lams - To Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is the latest in the arc which includes, in order: Flirtation, Morning, Kiss, and Love.

“So!” Lafayette clapped his hands. “It seems you both, your _argument_ , has been solved!”

“Ah...” John began, but Alexander cut in first.

“It has indeed – you may rest easy, now.”

“May I?” Lafayette stepped into the room completely and closed the door, looking back and forth between them. “You have both, really...?”

John's stomach clenched, but once more, his response was unneeded.

“We have.” Alexander spoke without hesitation.

Lafayette gasped with joy, hands clasping together tightly. “Oh! I am so very happy for you both!”

John glanced nervously at the door. The window was still bright, casting long beams across the floor, and the camp was bustling with activity beyond.

But Alexander was still smiling. “As am I.”

“Oh!” Gilbert sighed dramatically, his hand to his chest. “I am filled with memories – me and my dear Adrienne, when first we met! We knew it instantly, that it was love!”

“Yes... it is truly a wonderful feeling.”

“But she is so far! I wish she were here with me, now... Letters cannot properly send the feeling between husband and wife!”

With a smirk, Alex asked, “What kind of feeling are you most missing, precisely?”

Lafayette rolled his eyes. “It is cruel of you to mock me in this manner, when you have no troubles at all of it.”

Alexander laughed, purely and easily.

John frowned.

“I don't know why,” he said, without intending to speak at all, “you're all fine with this.”

The room fell silent.

John avoided their eyes. He felt guilty, now, for spoiling the mood. They had been happy – why couldn't he let it be?

“...what I do with you,” Alexander said finally; John raised his eyes. “...I do out of friendship, and love.”

“So the meaning purifies the action?”

“Yes.”

Gilbert looked uncomfortable. John tried to ignore him.

“And how do you know it doesn't work the other way?” he asked.

“Because I've felt it – love transforming the action, which may otherwise be bad.”

“How it _feels_ changes nothing. It is a sin regardless.”

Alexander shifted. His expression was tight again, and John remembered it from the other day, when he had been distant.

“We are at war,” he said.

“Obviously.” John resisted the urge to cross his arms irritably.

“In waging this, we commit many actions which would otherwise be immoral. Killing, stealing.”

John's stomach only clenched tighter. “So that makes this acceptable?”

Alexander shrugged. “The virtues which we strive for – liberty, equality – they justify these otherwise immoral actions. So does our love.”

John hated this. Once more, the Alexander looking at him seemed made out of stone. It was frightening, how quickly and undetectably he could make himself feel a stranger.

_...there – I don't have a response to that. Are you happy now?_

He said, instead: “do you really believe that?”

Alexander glared at him for a few moments.

“If you don't want to do this, we will stop.”

John pursed his lips.

After several moments, Alexander rose. “I believe I will work on a letter I have yet to write,” he said almost in passing as he crossed the room.

John and Gilbert watched the door as it closed.

_I want to know_ , John thought. _Please. You can explain anything – explain this to me._

“...I offended him,” he murmured.

“No, no!” Lafayette spoke in a rush. “Not at all – what would make you think that?”

A cloud has passed over the sky, shrouding the room in grey. Still men trudged and shouted out in the snow. John fiddled with a clasp on his uniform.

He spoke quietly. “...when we first kissed, he was so happy. I want that for him. I want to share that with him. But I keep ruining it.”

Lafayette looked so sad all of a sudden that John immediately wanted to take it back.

“My dear John... Alexander loves you. Everyone can see that! You are not ruining anything, you cannot!”

“But-”

“It is just - I think he is worried.”

John grunted, looking at the ground. “It doesn't seem like it.”

Gilbert glared at him. “That is mean. He is not an idiot.”

John bit his lip. He deserved that.

With a loud sigh, Gilbert leaned back in his chair. “But he is Alexander. He... he does not do things lightly. If he says he loves you, he does. And he will want more than anything you love him too, the same.”

John hated this as well: that he agreed with Gilbert utterly. He had waited like a coward for Alexander to begin this, and still rarely spoke an improper word to him that Alexander did not say first. It was not fair to push responsibility for that onto him, and then complain of him not considering the risks. He took part just as willingly where it mattered.

“Everything you say, Alexander must know too. So if you argue him... what can he say?” Gilbert shrugged. “Perhaps he worries you feel pushed...”

Of course he did. When had John ever given the impression this connection was not a burden to him? That he would not leave immediately if he had the option?

“...that's not the case.” John scratched his neck, highly uncomfortable. “I made my own decision. And... he is not... the first man, I have...”

Lafayette gasped. “I did not know that!”

John shrugged, awkwardly. 

“Just once, or...?”

“Just... one.”

He peered at John. “It did not end well?

John grimaced.

He would never have worried about offending Francis like this. He had brought it up only once, ever – and Francis had replied that during the event, he could forget the question entirely. He hadn't asked what John felt in response.

“...my dear John.” Lafayette was watching him softly. “...it really is true: there is no need for you to continue if you do not wish to. Your Hamilton – he already knows your feelings. He will understand.”

_No, he doesn't_ , John thought, _because_ I _barely know my feelings._

He had thought he loved Alexander, in the truest and fullest way one may love a friend, at the turn of the year, when he had worried himself to death over Alexander's health, or when he had been so immeasurably relieved to see him returned. But what he felt now was already so incomparably different. It had grown before his eyes, between his palms – each new shoot a delight, each bud a marvel.

Every day he seemed to find more and more reasons to love him, in more and more ways. Where were the syllables that could express the light in his heart when his eyes caught Alexander's? What colours could capture the spirit of that, what lines? He was a selfish and shuttered man who could not pour out his feelings through a gesture or the touch of a hand. Alexander smiled at him when he smiled, but he was sure, deep in his heart, that he did not _know_ – that there was so much more for him held within John, which he did not know how to give.

Only when they were intimate did it come close. When Alexander touched him as he had that night, and John mimicked his movements clumsily – only then could he manifest, with the strength of his kisses or the pull of his hands, the true content of his heart.

To end that now – he would cut his amour at the needs.

He wanted to know it. To know _Alexander_ – why he retreated from John's questioning, why he explained their sin that way, why it was so important to him to call them 'lovers'. He wanted to know every part of him, because every part of him was worthy of love – a sculpture found within the marble with careful patience, each facet gleaming.

But they would have so little time together. They could die in uncountable ways – Alexander's illness little more than a month ago was proof of that, and John knew that he would not survive the war. 

He could not destroy it now. His hands would falter, eternally.

He wanted this. To know Alexander, and be known – separately, and together.

He shook his head. “No. Not now.”


	14. Lams - Fools

“...that's important, but it doesn't matter how disciplined the men are if they haven't even a uniform to clothe them...”

Between the noise of sound crunching beneath boots, Gilbert blowing out a long breath caught Alexander's attention.

“Cold?” John asked on the other side, peering over as their friend rubbed his hands together close to his chest.

“Yes... Ah, this cold air is too sharp on my poor fingers!” Gilbert sighed dramatically, fanning out his hands to gaze at them with deep sorrow. “I had gloves, but I have lost them somewhere... I do not look forward to when I be asked to ride...”

John's eyes flicked to Alexander, who swallowed a response.

But instead, John nudged Gilbert. “In that case,” he said, almost grandly, extending his arm towards him, “I offer a replacement.”

Gilbert gasped in delight. “Ah, my dear friend – a perfect solution!” Beaming, he thrust his fingers against John's, tangling them greedily as John chuckled. “And so warm! You have saved me!”

Alexander snorted. They both seemed so pleased that it was hard to keep the warmth out of his voice as he spoke up. “...but, it seems you are still one hand short.”

“Of course, mon cher!” Gilbert smiled at him sweetly, sliding his hand over Alexander's. Alex jumped at the cool skin, but almost instantly the body heat began to pulse through. “What gentlemen are you both!”

John leaned around to grin at Alexander again as they walked, all in a line. And there was something about it all that made Alexander's heart throb – the three of them together, hand in hand, full of such joy and affection.

But when the sunlight caught against John's blue eyes like that, Alexander couldn't ignore an even more instinctive urge.

In that moment, he could tell that John was thinking the same as him – that it was not fair, really, that Gilbert be the only one to have both hands held...

Before he could even think of what he was doing, Alexander reached forwards. He saw in an instant how John's eyes lit up and his hand moved towards him as well, meeting together in the middle, warm against warm, where they belonged.

They stumbled to a stop.

It took a few moments for everyone to process what had happened.

Caught in the middle – the only man still facing properly forward – Gilbert snorted, and then snickered, and then burst out into full-bodied, booming laughter.

Trying in vain to ignore the gasps of his friend, Alexander stared down at the hands in front of him. They had been walking, and he had decided to take John's hand, and had done so. That was, clearly, what had happened.

John coughed. Alexander's eyes flew up before he could disguise his own embarrassment. John was biting his lip, mouth twisted as though he were failing entirely not to smile.

“Well,” he said.

_You're just as much to blame_ , Alexander retorted, trying frantically to hear beneath Gilbert's laughter whether there were any other men nearby to have seen this terrible mistake.

“...there are many advantages to this position indeed,” John murmured in a low voice. (And honestly, Alex would attest that it was entirely unfair that he was using _this_ voice _now_.) “But walking, it seems, is not one.”

Alexander raised his eyes fully to John's, refusing to hide the tired twitch in his eyebrow. And then, he sighed.

“You...you two!” At a tug on his arm, Alex and John alike were pulled into Gilbert, where he kissed each man's cheek in turn. “You cannot wait even for a moment, can you? Ah, I love you both – such a blinded pair!”

Alex huffed. “Well...” he said at least, “I cannot deny that...”

John seemed embarrassed as well now, and Alexander drew strength from that, straightening his spine and holding his head high.

“For that is the immortal truth, is it not?” he declared proudly. “That love makes fools of us all.”

“Indeed, indeed! Precisely!” Gilbert chuckled, swinging their arms back and forth.

John's fingers shifted beneath his. Alexander gripped onto them tightly, to emphasise his point. _I love you,_ he said – _and I will say it again and again._

But then John seemed to be trying not to smile again.

“We should probably get going again...”

Quickly (though not without a stubborn trace of reluctance), Alexander pulled his hand back again, stiffly ignoring one last bark of laughter from Gilbert.


	15. Lams - Proposal

“So, you find men more attractive?” Alexander tilted his head against the pillow, twirling a lock of John's hair loosely. “I can't say I don't understand that. There are very many fit young men around us at present. And there are certain advantages to such unions.”

John scoffed, leaning in to Alexander's hand. “Advantages?”

“Of course. There is a certain meeting of the minds, of equality, that can only happen between two educated men – though there are some women of intelligence, of course, but they are so rare.”

While true, John was not certain that it was this, precisely, that appealed to him.

“And...” Alexander smiled mischievously, snuggling closer to his lover's body, “I doubt that we would be permitted to sleep so closely together if one of us were a woman.”

“Only if we were not married,” John pointed out, rolling his eyes.

But Alexander smiled suddenly, eyes lighting up. “Oh, of course! And come to think of it, we have been courting for so long... really, I been frightfully evasive towards you – a terrible, non-committal rake...”

John grunted, oddly uncomfortable. “This is silly.”

“Not at all! You raise a very fine point. The matter is long overdue – I have disrespected your family for too long. And so, my dear Laurens...”

“Alex-”

Alexander took his hand with as much of a flourish as he could manage beneath the blankets. “Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

John stared at him. Ageing wood creaked above his head, and the cot beneath him was as lumpy as ever, but Alexander was warm and close and sounded so much happier to say these words than John ever had.

“...I am afraid that I must protest,” he said eventually.

Alexander's eyebrows shot up. “Protest?”

“Yes. I understand your feelings for me – but I am afraid this union is impossible. I could never be a proper wife to you.”

“And why is that?”

John stretched out his arm along Alexander's back and settled into his pillow lazily. “Why, my dear, I am afraid that I am entirely terrible at housework. I haven't the slightest skill for it. I could not run a household to save my own life.” He nodded, seriously. “And so, out of the greatest love for you, I must demand that you reconsider your proposal.”

“I see... that is truly a concerning declaration.” Alexander frowned, stroking a thumb against his chin.

A thought flickered into view, and John wondered what, exactly, Alexander really did want from marriage.

But then came a puff of air, and a wan smile. Fingers curled through John's hair, and Alexander's head rested against John's chest beneath his chin.

“I would want to marry you anyway,” Alexander whispered.

Before he was aware of it, John was smiling. He gathered his lover into his arms and kissed his forehead. In these times, his heart would never fail to feel impossibly full.

“I do love you so, my dear boy,” he murmured, to Alexander's pleased hum.


	16. Lams - Pistols and Swords

Sunlight glinted against Alexander's blade as he ran it over his whetstone. “The simple fact of it is,” he says with great certainty, “arms provide an undeniable range in tactical maneuvering which completely beyond what any blade could ever do.”

John rolled his eyes, his own sword almost abandoned. “There are advantages, certainly – but also greater logistical challenges. Manufacturing the bullets alone takes incredible resources...”

“So you would have us stop?” Alexander grinned, pointedly. “Reduce our army to nothing but swordsmen, because of the difficulty with bullets?”

Lafayette giggled, but John rolled his eyes; tried to collect his thoughts.

“Of course not. But – what I mean is, the form of fighting is entirely different. With a sword, it must be face to face. With a rifle, the other party need not even know you are there-”

“And you are counting this in favour of swords?”

Again, Lafayette laughed. John glared.

“What about you, Gilbert?” Alexander tossed his head in his direction, setting his blade aside. “Where do you stand in this heated debate?”

“Hmmm.... difficult, very difficult...” Gilbert hummed in a very serious tone, arms crossed. “I would say, if I must... I prefer... swords.”

“Oh, of course!” John cried out, glorying in Alexander's frown of displeasure.

“Why?” Alexander asked, simply.

Gilbert shrugged languidly. “Well... swords, in comparison, simply have a certain... _je ne sais quoi!_ ”

“What.”

John grinned. “No, no – the man is completely correct! We have entirely ignored aesthetic merits in our discussion thus far. And swords are clearly far more elegant than a large, clunky rife or awkward pistol. Why, simply imagine a tall, handsome man in uniform, a sword at his side – it is an image without compare!”

He had gestured forwards, but Alexander and Gilbert instead turned in unison and looked John up and down.

“Indeed.” “Can't argue with that.”

John coughed, not entirely uncomfortable with the flattery.

“I-in any case – what I have been _trying_ to say is that I prefer swords because they simply have a far greater sense of honour to them. It is a weapon of great history, of great men, of...”

His mind stumbled, somehow. He could taste the truth he was reaching for on the tip of his tongue, and cast his eyes downwards with a frown as he reached for it.

“...with a rifle, there is distance between the men – it is a cowardly weapon, at heart, regardless of how it is used. But with a sword in hand, men face one another directly, at equal risk. You cannot escape your own risk, or the fact of what you are doing – every expression that plays upon his face because of you is made plain, and when his body is split... it is felt, through you, through the heavy hilt in your hand...”

John stopped abruptly, hand curled in his lap. He stared at it, silently.

For several long moments, nobody spoke.

And then, he felt Alexander lean closer to him. And a murmur, loud enough for Gilbert to hear: “if the feel of a strong hilt is what you want, that can be provided to you.”

John blinked.

In a moment, Gilbert dissolved into laughter, doubling over himself in mirth. John glanced up, shocked, but Alexander's face was probing, sympathetic.

_...he is trying to cheer me._

“If you don't take him up on it,” Gilbert gasped, “I will not hesitate!”

Alex smirked, but his eyes stayed locked on John.

Finally, John pursed his lips. “Not outside,” he mumbled sternly.

“Sorry,” Alex said sincerely.

John sighed, long and low, and cast his eyes upwards and away from these two men who were, one way or another, his closest friends in the world. “Well. Regardless...”

Alex perked up, eyes bright.

“...it is two against one. So the matter is entirely settled – swords are the superior choice,” he finished, primly, with a firm nod.

Alexander pouted.


	17. Lams - Bump

Hamilton _squawks._

Laurens stops. Hamilton stops. The letter – the very subject of Hamilton's playful boasting and John's sudden lunge – flutters onto the cot and settles by John's knee.

John Laurens is a twenty-three year old man. He is a respected soldier in the American army, and an aide-de-camp to George Washington himself. He is a man of duty and honour and pride. He is not a ten-year-old child wrestling with a younger brother.

Alexander's eyes say it, clearly: _do not dare._

John grins.

His fingers dig into Alexander's side again and Alexander _squeals_ with a pitch that can only encourage John further. He tickles him mercilessly, straddling him on the bed and trapping him tightly with his body weight so he can't escape. When Alexander's waistcoat rides up, John's fingers shove beneath it, scrabbling against the single layer of fabric separating them.

Alex flails for his arm to grab it, but he can't get a good angle, and he's shaking too hard in unrestrainable laughter to exert his full strength. John continues his onslaught in sheer delight, hair falling into his friend's face as he leans over him breathlessly.

He's so distracted that he doesn't notice as Alexander's hands fall from his arm and reappear at his shoulders and then, at just the right moment, _push._

In an instant, John's upper body catapults backwards – and then there is a loud thunk, and a piercing stab of pain at the back of his head.

John falls back and curses, loudly and vehemently.

“Ah, sorry, sorry -” Alexander tries to touch his arm, but, irritable and petty, John kicks him. Alex whacks him in return, but stays close.

“Is something going on in-?” comes Meade from the doorway. But the tableau – both men kneeled awkwardly on the bed, half on top of one another, John clutching his head – must tell the story well enough, because he visibly rolls his eyes and leaves again, muttering something about _children._

“Are you hurt?” Alex asks, gently.

John sighs, dropping one hand. “No...it's fine. It's hardly the worst wound I've suffered. Just the shock of it.” He scratches at his scalp and glares upward. “But, I am really not fond of these low ceilings...”

Alexander lets out an amused huff. But then he shuffles closer again. “Um, are you bleeding? It is a head wound...” John starts to answer in the negative, but then Alex says: “I could check? For you?”

John considers that. Alex's knee is very warm against his, and he can smell the scent of sweat and pomatum from him. His heart beats rather fast.

“...I can't tell. So, uh, you could...”

Alex smiles brightly; John's chest tightens further. “Certainly!”

Alexander shifts to his side, giving him a view over John's shoulder. When he touches John's hair, John makes a conscious effort not to jump. Carefully, Alexander parts the hair at his scalp, leaning in closely to look for traces of blood. John's eyes flutter closed, but with his sight gone, he can only feel all the more vividly the warmth of Alexander's breath against his ear and the press of his fingertips.

Alexander probes slowly, running his fingers against the skin as though to check for pain. At one point, he loosens John's queue somewhat, so that he can dig into John's hair more deeply; John barely suppresses a grunt. His touch is surprisingly light – delicate. Lingering.

There's a strange peace to it. The noise outside the house – men working, birds tweeting and trilling – fades in and out behind the sound of Alexander's breathing and the light rustling of John's hair. It's been a long time since he has felt so comfortable, he thinks. He could grow accustomed to this.

Finally (in no time at all), Alexander leans back. “No blood that I can see,” he murmurs, and it sounds strangely loud and intimate in the quiet room.

After a moment, John abruptly remembers to open his eyes, and does so hastily, blinking away the blur in his vision.

He swallows; it's almost painful. “Ah-” he almost coughs. “Thank you, my dear.”

Alexander hums a little, pleased – and then, sadly, shuffles away.

John is so busy catching his breath again that it takes him a moment to recognise it when Alexander plucks the letter back up again with something of a smug smile.

“It seems that you were unsuccessful after all,” he says, holding it up. “And thus this letter – which, I remind you, details only the incredible pleasure of this young woman in describing how _fortunate_ she was in attracting my attention, and _all_ of her friends agree-”

Alexander Hamilton is, as John is well aware, a smart man, and could not possibly be surprised when John tackles him again.


	18. Johnloch - Warmth

“I cannot stand this!”

John glanced up; his newest friend, the young man from Eton, stood at the window, glaring with terrible venom at the snow-covered landscape beyond.

“You cannot deal the cold?” Vegobre asked with a smirk, standing up from his seat.

“Of course not, I am a Carolinian.” Kinloch pouted. “We are a proud people of warm sunshine and – what are you-”

Having approached the door, Vegobre opened it with a sigh. “Ahhhh – what wonderful mountain air!”

Francis swore and John snorted – but then, without warning, Francis was beside him, huddled closely against his shoulder. John swallowed deeply.

“You villain, this is entirely unfair!” Kinloch cried out, before turning this eyes to John's. “You suffer my pain, do you not, Laurens?”

“I-I do.” His face was awfully close, and John found himself strangely unsettled. He coughed, averting his gaze to Vegobre, the man groaning as though he could not imagine a better delicacy than air-borne frost. “It was certainly a shock, when I first arrived... Though after some years, I have grown somewhat accustomed to the winters.”

Kinloch grunted. “Years? I cannot last that – I will surely die on my own. No-” he tugged at John's sleeve; without thinking, John turned to him again. “I insist on a friend to warm me.”

John's cheeks went scarlet and Vegobre sniggered openly.

“You scoundrels...” Kinloch huffed. “I mean that I must have a friend to sit close to – and in addition, to warm me, to-night. You will do that for me, won't you, Laurens? As one Carolinian for another?”

His eyes shone the most delicious brown, brow furrowed in the deepest concern. When another tug came to his sleeve, John felt himself topple.

“...of course,” he managed.

The response was immediate; Kinloch beamed a smile that could melt winter entirely. “I knew I could count on you! Unquestionably, Laurens – you are the only man in this entire Boreas-cursed city who can truly understand me!”

“H-hah...”

Vegobre whistled; Kinloch stuck his tongue out childishly. John's arm was tingling.

“You are merely jealous,” Kinloch proclaimed, pressing himself against John's side, “of the fast friendship which has already blossomed between Laurens and I.”

John smiled, shakily; this year in Geneva was already certain to be warmer than his first.


	19. Lams - Pine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt '28. Sunlight on rumpled sheets and the smell of pine.' Warning for suicidal ideation and general creepiness.

He dreams of a nest of linen and twigs, swirled around bare legs and splattered with curls.

Sensations flutter past him like leaves in the wind – brown and black and purple smeared over a cheek; rich earth and pine and something sweet inhaled with each breath; blood running down his arm and collecting in his elbow.

He flickers in and out of consciousness – sometimes flesh and skin and meat, at other times merely a jumble of bones dumped in a pile. The sun, brilliant light on all sides, bleaches him bit by bit.

But there is Alexander – cradled in the blade-sharp rocks, sunlight with hair and fingers, boiling him up from the inside. They kiss and kiss and kiss, scrabbling for purchase, a balanced scale.

He wants to dig deep into the dirt. Dive his hands into the roots and matter and never stop – let the mountains tumble over him and bury him with poacea and triticum, diffuse himself into food and water. Alexander could join him – surely, with his name, it is their fate.

Alexander cups his cheek, stumbling over John’s insubstantial form. “If you died,” he says with perfect clarity, “my heart would never be whole again.”

John can’t look. That is the difference between them – they both dream of death, but Alexander does not want to _be_ dead.

Alexander pushes him away; brushes off his uniform. Grins at him as he would over a dirty joke at dinner. “Well, Laurens, shall we be off?”

They are a single creature now, but one day, he knows, their parts will be separated, never to be reconstructed. The sword at his waist shines, reflecting black and blue.  
He doesn’t hear his response before he wakes.


	20. Gen - Good Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the [Lams AU](https://whatagrump.tumblr.com/post/132483567606/lams-au-masterpost), shortly before [Laurens Is Overprotective.](http://madtomedgar.tumblr.com/post/131971007847/lams-au-overprotective-brotherjohn-laurens-fic)

“So here’s the young lady!”

When John turned to look, Alexander was already striding brightly towards the other side of the room, where Frances had just entered with her maid.

Her eyes went wide to see the unfamiliar man, and after a moment, she fumbled into a curtsey.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Frances Laurens.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you too, Frances Laurens.”

John walked forwards just enough to clap a hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “This is Alexander Hamilton – as I told you, he’ll be visiting for a week.”

Frances nodded shyly, but Alexander was all smiles.

“He’s been telling you all about me, has he? Not anything cruel, I should hope?”

Frances shook her head uncertainly.

“You didn’t seem so sure! I knew it – all professions of affection and love to my face, but a minute alone and it’s all ‘that Hamilton of mine, he speaks far too much for me...’ Am I right?”

“No...”

“Not that? Something else? Then it must be that my coats are much too flashy – or not flashy enough! Or that all of my policies are completely wrong, or that my laugh is so irritating...”

“He doesn’t say anything like that!” Frances protested, but she seemed to be smiling too, now.

There was something in his posture and in his expression that captivated John all over again. He wondered whether his friend had been this way with children before the birth of his son – but regardless, it warmed his heart beyond measure to see his two dearest getting along like this.

“He says,” she continued, “that you’re a very good man and that I am to call you Uncle Hamilton.”

Hamilton smiled at him. John shrugged in return. He could say a great deal more than that.

“Of course – and quite rightly. About the uncle business, anyway. As for the former…well, I leave that up to your papa to decide.”

John snorted. “First you’ve left that to anyone else,” he murmured; Alex rolled his eyes minutely.

“But I am very pleased – you seem like a very proper and insightful young lady already.” Alexander observed her sternly for a moment. “You have been a good girl for your papa, haven’t you?”

Frances blinked at him. Abruptly, the tentative joy left her face and her eyes fell downcast.

“...no,” she said.

John and Alexander stared at her.

“...no?” Alex pressed, after a moment. “You haven’t been a good girl?”

Frances shook her head. She began to sniff, hands balling in the skirts of her dress.

John’s mind spun. He didn’t remember punishing her for anything important lately – had she been hiding something from him? He tried to recall the kinds of mischief he and his siblings got up to when they were her age – had she broken something? Intruded into his study?

“Frances.” In a moment he kneeled down next to her; her eyes were already red. “Why don’t you think you’ve been a good girl?”

Frances sniffed. “B-because I’ve been...crying,” she said. “And...not talking to you.”

John sat back.

He could feel Alexander’s eyes on him, but his thoughts were a long way away.

After a moment, he leaned forwards again. “Did your grandpapa tell you that?”

She nodded, miserably.

John took a deep breath in and out.

“...Fanny.” He reached a hesitant hand to her shoulder, pausing when she flinched. It broke his heart. “...I don’t think you’re a bad girl.”

She sniffed again and didn’t respond.

He didn’t know what to say. He had comforted his siblings many times before, over the deaths of their mother and siblings, but they had always sought him out willingly. And he had always shared in their pain equally.

“...when you are older,” he said quietly, “you will be expected to take control of your feelings, and express them only among family. But you are young, and you are among family. There is no shame in crying.”

Frances nodded, jerkily.

“As for talking… well, I’m afraid I can’t do much about that – you’ll have to talk to me sometimes. But I want you to talk to me – and smile – because you want to, not because I make you. I...” He swallowed. “I understand… how hard things have been for you. I do not expect that you will love me or this home immediately.”

Frances mumbled something unintelligible.

“What was that? Speak so I can hear.”

“I do love you papa...”

His heart thudded.

“Thank you,” he said, with feeling.

With a sigh, he reached forward to hug her. She clutched tightly to him, so he remained there for several moments. When they separated, Alexander was knelt down beside them as well.

“That’s right, Fanny – your papa loves you very much, and so do all of your family. We all want to help you.”

“Thank you sir,” Frances mumbled.

“Now,” John said, “let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?” He turned to the servant who nodded immediately. 

Frances glanced back at him as she was led away, but her expression was inscrutable.

John sagged. A few moments later, he felt Alexander pressing his arm against his.

“You’re doing well,” he said softly. “Any child in her position would be having troubles. This was the right thing to do.”

John stared after her, brow furrowed. He didn’t say: _I hope so._


End file.
